The Friction of All Opposites
Title: The Friction of All Opposites
Summary: Post-Disaster, the world has been rebuilt by several major powers, including the Administration and the Federation. No one wants war, but the cracks mean that it is inevitable, even if the other powers stand aside. Based loosely on Icarus [Edward Field], Waiting for Icarus [Muriel Rukeyser], and Icarus [Jose F Rosado]. The title of this fic comes from the latter poem. 20 little vignettes. A relatively open ending.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Godric/Salazar, Helga/Rowena, OCs
Genre: AU, angst
Rating: PG; slight swearing + non-graphic violence
Warnings: [Spoiler (click to open)]Character death?
Word Count: 6685
Author's Notes: For hh_sugarquill's Big Bang. Betas were c_hrista and etacanis <3
* "Celer, Silens, Mortalis": comes from the US Marine Corps, specifically the motto of the Marine Force Reconnaissance companies, and means "Swift, Silent, Deadly".
001
"I don't like you," the girl says, clutching her book with the torn and scribbled pages.
Godric feels a little guilty, but it had been left alone on the table with no name on it. A warrior also needs to know when to give in, though, so he mutters a quiet 'sorry' and hopes that she won't tell on him to the instructor.
He likes the instructor. She smells of freshly ironed wool.
The other girl, the one with the bright yellow band around her waist, grins at Godric. "Oh, Ro. He's said sorry, now, hasn't he? It's his first day, after all. Let's go play forts, yeah?" She tugs the other girl's elbow, and they leave for the wooden blocks scattered at the other end of the room.
Godric decides that he hates school. His shirt is an old one of Da's, too big for his shoulders. His trousers are all right, he supposes, but there are patches on the knees, because he'd tried to get Georgie's ribbon down from the tree in their backyard a week ago, and had scraped himself on the bark coming down. His own ribbon is faded and tied defiantly around the top of his head. The rest of the children have clothes that aren't brand new - no one has brand new clothes anyway - but they fit and aren't too faded.
He kicks the floor and pouts, leaning against his desk, until he hears a soft 'hi' from beside him. The boy is thin and looks wooden, if Godric's being honest.
"Hi." Ma told him to make friends, after all. He gives the boy a quick flash of his teeth. Ma always said that he had a nice smile.
"I'm, uhm, Salazar. Slytherin." Salazar holds out his hand, clean and pale. His ribbon is an emerald green, and tied around his wrist. Godric pretends to not notice the red ruler marks peeping out from under the satin. "Instructor says we have the desks next to each other."
Godric grasps the offered hand firmly, like Ma said, and introduces himself. He thinks he likes Salazar, even though he can't help but compare his crisp slacks and ironed shirt and neat hair with Godric's own crumpled outfit and messy curls.
They spend the rest of Break discussing Strategy and Physical classes, and strike up a deal, because Salazar knows all about the former, and Godric's good at the latter. Godric goes home with a smile on his face and Salazar's extra pencil in his hand.
002
This is what the world is, children, do pay attention. Yes, you, Gryffindor. For shame; you are a Red! You need to know what you're fighting for.
This is what the world is. There is the Administration. Greens, you will grow up to work with the finest men and women our bloc can offer. The Administration takes care of us. They are responsible for our quarters, our rations, and our education. Everything is systematic and efficient because of the Administration.
This is what the world is. There are different Houses. Reds are warriors. Yes, Gryffindor, no need to shout. Yellows are healers. That's right, Hufflepuff, now stop waving the stethoscope about; you're going to put Smith's eye out. No hitting your House fellows, remember that, children. No, Gryffindor, that does not give you reason to hit other Houses too. Greens are diplomats and politicians. Don't look so pompous, Malfoy, you will need to serve in order to lead. And Blues are instructors. Ravenclaw, dear, do put that book down. I know you know all this already, but everyone needs to listen. It's mandatory. Gryffindor, don't pester Ravenclaw for the definition of 'mandatory'. Just listen, and you can have a look at the dictionary later.
This is what the world is. There are Classes of people from different backgrounds. But we all come together as one, children, to school, and why? Yes, Patil, it's mandatory, but why else, children? Come on now, we've talked about it before! Yes, Slytherin? Right, well done. All together now. Including you, Gryffindor, and you, Potter! No skiving. Harmony. Together we are strong. We may be in different Houses and different Classes, but we need to stick together, otherwise the Disaster will happen again, and we don't want that, do we? Especially now that we're being bullied by the Federation. Gryffindor, do put down that sword. I'm sure Slytherin and Black want their hair to remain intact.
This is what the world is. The Administration is sure that we are going to be at war in a little less than a decade, from what they are seeing from the Federation. We all have to do our part; do remember that, children. Now run along, and remember to play nice with each other. Gryffindor, you can have your sword back, dear.
003
"I'm going to be a healer," Helga sings. "A healer, a healer."
Godric flicks a blade of grass at her, grinning. "We know that already. All Yellow fellows are healers, Puff."
"A war healer, then, pedant." Helga nods towards the slight figure of Salazar in the distance. "Speaking of, he looks sad. What's with the two of you knobheads?"
He doesn't mean to stare, but he does. Salazar's leaning against the tree (their tree) in the middle of the field, talking to Rowena, his voice too low for the wind to carry.
Godric swallows and looks away. "We had a fight."
"About what? I haven't seen both of you like this since that incident with the dyed hair." Helga kicks his foot, making to sit up from the ground, a flower in her braids. "Oi, come on. Did you do something?"
Godric shreds the leaf in his hands, scowling. "I… I might have kissed him."
Helga just looks at him with that motherly look, the one caught in between frustration and laughter. "Oh. You might have kissed him. Really? How did you manage that? Did you fall onto him and then instantly concuss yourself?"
"Fuck you." He throws the ruined leaf away, glancing at Salazar and not expecting green eyes to flash and meet his own blue ones. His heart beats twice; Salazar turns back to Rowena. "We were studying in his room and I kissed him, and he pushed me away, and I might ha- I called him a coward, and then I left. I don't think… I don't think he likes me that way, anyway, so."
Helga calls him an arse right off, an assessment he sort of agrees with. "He's scared, you dumbo. Anyone in their right mind can see that you two are meant for each other, and don't you make that face, Romeo. He likes you, you like him. Easy as pie. It's the whole kissing him out of the blue in his father's house - you know how his old man is, Gryffindor, and you still did it, prickhead - and calling him a coward - even though you know he hates being called that, and he isn't one anyway - that you bollocksed up!" She shoves him hard enough to roll him back onto his back on the grass, and stands up, towering over him with her messy hair and motherly look.
"You," she says, pointing her finger squarely at Godric. "You need to go apologise to him. Bend that ego of yours and say you're sorry. Don't kiss him. Hold his fucking hand if he looks like he's halfway to forgiving you." She kicks him lightly on the shin, and Godric can feel his cheeks burning. He hates to apologise, and she knows it. "Go over there, now, and maybe I'll let you copy my Health notes."
Godric stands up with as much dignity as he can muster with a red face and thumping chest. "Thanks, Puff."
*
"Here he comes," Rowena whispers. "Listen to him, all right, and don't speak until he's done explaining himself. And for heaven's sake, Salazar, smile, or at least keep a frown from your face. You look scary like that."
Salazar nods. He doesn't turn around even as he hears Godric approach, just stares straight ahead as the other boy greets Rowena and moves to stand beside Salazar against the tree. Their tree.
*
"Boys." Helga snorts, her fingers in Rowena's dark locks, her eyes narrowed at the two figures up the hill. "So bloody stubborn, the two of them."
"Well, the old adage that opposites attract is a lie." Rowena winces as Helga tugs a little too hard. "Careful, Helga, I want braids, not a bald scalp. Anyway, that piece of conventional wisdom is total shit. Most people look for people who are similar to them, it's been proven. Salazar and Godric are two sides of the same coin."
Helga lets out a soft 'hmph', still watching, even as she twists the strands of hair into an intricate pattern. "They don't have time for fighting. Now that the war's almost here."
"No, they don't." Rowena's fingers reach up to tap Helga on her wrist. "You're really applying for military school, then?"
"Yes." The fingers stop for a beat, then continue. Helga's voice is low when she says, "I leave just after Godric does."
"Two months, then." Rowena's voice catches on the last word, and she swallows, turning her attention to the book in her hand, pretending to read, as Helga weaves her blue ribbon through her hair.
004
Red is the colour of the warrior. Elena has a picture of Godric from when he was a baby framed and hung over the mantelpiece. It's the only picture she has of anyone. She remains adamant that it should stay there, even when Godric passes through the ages from embarrassed teen to mature (well, as much as Godric could be mature anyway) adult. It's a lovely photograph, from back when people took photographs, and it's in colour, which is even better. Godric's eyes shine fiercely at the camera, his skin pale against the crimson cloth, his chubby fingers exploring the gold pin marked with the Gryffindor family crest.
Now, Godric's tall, strong, muscular. A soldier. He comes home every few weeks in his uniform, the drab olives matching well with his tanned skin. His fingers are slender, calloused from handling all kinds of weapons that Elena doesn't want to know about. His eyes still have that gleam in them, but it's faded a tad now, seriousness taking over, and every time she looks into them, when they say goodbye too soon, Elena misses her little baby, the one with the megawatt smile that reminds her so much of Godric's father.
*
"Son." He stares at the scrawny lad and frowns. "Stop fidgeting, Salazar. A gentleman, much less a scholarly diplomat, does not wriggle about. One must always maintain an image."
The young man blinks and stiffens his body ramrod straight.
"Good. Now tell me about the history of the Administration, and then discuss how our President might so be advised on the current situation with the eastern bloc of the Federation."
005
Basic training is meant to be tough, a test of grit, and it turns out to be one that Godric absolutely loves. He was never one for academics, anyway. That he would much rather leave to swots like the Greens and the Blues, although he has to admit that the Greens and Blues in Basic are as fierce as the Reds. Well, at least they're officers and get the pleasures of filing papers and working out strategy. Godric's happy enough right now as a grunt.
The standard obstacle course is his favourite, even though the other recruits moan about it all the fucking time. Godric slides up the ropes and wooden buildings with burning muscles and a memory of shimmying up the tree in the backyard back home, a grin never truly forming on his face ("Soldiers do not fucking smile, recruit!").
He misses Ma and Georgie and Salazar for a bit at the start, but shrugs it off. It's not war yet; he still gets packages of food from home now and then, along with Advanced Strategy notes from Salazar that he barters for extra sweets from junior officers-in-training. ("They're for you to read, arsehole!" "My body needs the calories, Sal!") Godric regrets the latter at the end of the passing out parade, after his training officer tells him that he's up for specialist school. Salazar just smirks, and Godric doesn't know whether to hit him or kiss him when he produces a copy of the handwritten papers.
*
He likes the quiet of his work. It's not as glamourous as they show it on the telly for most of them, no press conferences and benign waves to the few video cameras that still function. He likes the shuffle of the pages as he peruses for information, and even though it's stressful to be taking on more and more practical tasks (rather than practice scenarios drawn up by his father), he enjoys the challenge.
His father still calls him to his office to discuss the bloc's policies, but they're real discussions with aides and mysterious men that don't talk. He knows he's being groomed for something, but he doesn't ask what or why, because the ruler marks are old but still freshly imprinted on the underside of his skin. ("Patience is the hallmark of a man. If one does not learn how to take lessons from time, one is a fool, Salazar. Dismissed.")
There are Physical lessons that he hates, but it helps to think back of Godric at the end of a gruelling sparring round, stretching out a sweaty hand for Salazar to grab. When Godric finishes Basic and has a fortnight off before heading off for specialist training, he joins in with Salazar's training. ("Hello, Sally… zar. Good afternoon, sir." "Hmph. Gryffindor. We begin in three minutes.") Salazar isn't surprised when Godric manages to flip him over in record time, but is pleasantly shocked when he manages to win one round out of five.
006
It's the first time that his father has touched him in years. All that time, there had always been a space in between their bodies, occasionally bridged by a ruler, the wooden one that still lies on his father's desk, or the morning paper, or official legislative books. The hand in his hand feels unfamiliar. It's rough, calloused, and sharp with age and weariness. The wedding ring is warm, and Salazar can feel the letters against his thumb, spelling out his mother's name.
"Salazar," his father rasps, blinking. "You need to be strong. Don't let us down."
He nods. The chair feels sturdy under his weight. It's only the sensation of falling, he tells himself absently.
"Our motto, boy, remember that. Celer, Silens, Mortalis." He inclines his head in a firm dismissal, and slackens his grip. Salazar leaves the bedroom. The healer comes out an hour later and pats his shoulder.
He doesn't cry or show any emotion until he reaches the bathroom, splashing cold water on himself until it hurts. Later, he gives firm handshakes, accepting condolences from his new colleagues and staff, a perfect picture of a politician, just like how his father had taught him.
007
"You're all important now," Godric says with a bemused smile, marching da-dum da-dum in his boots around Salazar's new office.
It's not really new, per se; Salazar has had it for a month now, but he's hardly spent a week in it. The papers lying on the desk are still devoid of ink other than the official letterhead, and the bookcase hasn't been touched, other than the newest edition of the Administrative Code that Salazar's sliding back into place onto its shelf.
"Not too important for you, I hope," he replies quietly, moving to stand beside Godric, looking out of the large window behind his desk over at the empty parade ground. "You have permission to kick my arse if I get too cocky."
Godric glances at him before letting out a bark of laughter that is almost swallowed up by the rich carpet. Salazar thinks it's unnecessary and tacky, the carpet. "You're never cocky, Sally. Arrogant and confident, yeah, but I invented cocky. Sir."
They stand in silence for a few minutes, Godric unconsciously rubbing his pinky finger against Salazar's. Salazar lets them indulge. The guards are outside, and there are not enough cameras for every office.
"What do you do anyway?"
"Can't tell you, Gryffindor, or you'll blab to the whole fucking world."
"Fuck you, Slytherin." Godric's tone is easygoing as always, but his body's thrumming with curiosity.
Salazar tells him that he's one of the President's main strategists. It's half of the truth, the other unspoken half burning his throat, lodged there ever since those months ago in his father's office.
"They tell us war's coming. Less than a year now."
"Well, we'll just have to make the most of time, then."
*
She stands on tiptoe, straining her eyes to spot a figure she knows all too well. Her hair's in a messy braid, the navy blue ribbon flapping in the wind, and her uniform is creased from the press of the crowd, but Rowena doesn't care, because suddenly there's a warm laugh and a hug, and Helga's there.
"Aw, Ro, I've missed you!"
Rowena's not going to cry, but she's not going to speak either, her lips pressed tight against Helga's neck.
"Oh, Ro." Helga's palm pats the back of Rowena's uniform soothingly, and Rowena remembers to breathe. "C'mon, let's not give these buggers a show, yeah?"
Rowena finally lets go and takes in the lean muscles of Helga's arms, and the dark circles under her eyes, and the familiar half-smile she sports.
008
After the party, they lie down on Godric's bed and look up at the ceiling, side by side. They catalogue the cracks in the paint, the whirring of the fan, the brush of their hands. Godric's still in his dress uniform, the starch and wax and pins and badges shining dully in the burn of the full moon. Salazar reaches out blindly and places his palm on Godric's stomach, feeling him breathe under the cotton, feeling Godric under soldier.
The house is silent when they finally kiss, Salazar on his feet against the wall next to the open window, Godric pressed against him so hard that Salazar is sure that he'll have indents from the buttons and badges on his skin in the morning. The kiss is biting and fast, and Salazar struggles to keep up as they lick into each other's mouths, their breaths turning into gasps into barely-suppressed moans.
In the morning, Salazar finds himself waking up to Godric snoring into his ear. It's ticklish, and slightly loud, but Salazar stays as still as possible, trying to memorise every bit of the not-dream that was the night before. A bruise on his shoulder pulses faintly, dragging a pull down into his belly, and Godric smirks against Salazar's neck as he wakes.
009
Georgie sits in front of the telly. The picture is fuzzy and flickers every few seconds, but the sound is clear enough. Ma's watching from the kitchen, her pale fingers gripped tight around the fork she's using to mash the potatoes.
Georgie doesn't think either of them will have much dinner later.
*
"Instructor, what does war mean?" The little boy is curled up into her side, and Rowena tries to dash the fear and sadness in her voice as she answers.
"Well, love. War is a conflict carried on by a force of arms, if you go by the dictionary, but I do think dictionaries are useless for a proper explanation." An anxious smile escapes her as she squeezes the boy's shoulder. "War is a period of time where people leave and some don't come back even if we want them to. It's pain and it's suffering and it's anger, and it never ends sooner than it should."
"Then why must we have it in the first place?" His face is open and innocent, brow furrowed in confusion. Rowena doesn't know how to answer him, and is glad when a voice calls out in the late afternoon.
The boy runs to his mother with wide arms and leaps into a worried hug.
Rowena stumbles back into the classroom and starts to cry.
*
They've been busy for days, but it's still not enough. Lunch is a quick bite in between stockpiling emergency supplies and packing extra medical kits for the troops on the ground.
Helga doesn't rest yet, even when they've finished boxing up the last of the kits and sent them off to Alpha Company. The other Healers are chivvied off to dinner by her, and she laughs just to make them smile, but it rings hollow and she hates it.
"Hello?" she says into the telephone, alone in the hall that's too clean and too empty. "Ro?"
She doesn't have dinner, just the slice of pudding that her second-in-command presses into her hand. The sweet chocolate on her tongue tastes marginally better with a bit of salt.
*
It's cold and dark in his office. He leans against the window, back facing the parade square, and doesn't reach for his jacket draped on the chair in front of him.
The tears fall, and his fingers tremble as he lights the cigarette Godric left behind.
*
"Soldiers, we are called into duty today to fight. I ask you to forget about the Administration, and about your family. I ask you to remember that you are a soldier of our training, men and women that will, with no questions asked, win.
"Many of you will come back injured. Some will not return. But all of you will perform your duty proudly. I am assured of this.
"The Administration and our President have given their orders. We move at oh three hundred tomorrow morning. Dismissed."
*
The lights go out, and the barracks immediately fall silent. No more shuffling of bedclothes, no more prayers. No snores, no whispered dreams. The wind gushes loudly into the rooms, whistles past the bunks, and echoes to find nothing.
Godric stands at attention, uniform stifling for the first time since the first day of basic, and tries not to think of anything other than the mission plan. It doesn't work for the first few minutes, with flashes of green eyes and Georgie's hair and the smell of Ma's cooking interrupting his commander's voice, but then his training kicks in; his posture stiffens even tighter, and all that's left are coordinates and protocols and the bittersweet bruise of a bite aching on his hip.
010
"At five o'clock this morning, our forces engaged Federal troops along the border of the western bloc of the Administration. The Army has also been deployed to defend the eastern perimeter. In other news, the Republic still maintains its neutral position on the conflict, but has acknowledged both the Administration's and the Federation's requests for medical assistance in the event of casualties.
Citizens are reminded to remain inside after dark, and to tune in to the regular news broadcasts every hour."
011
There are letters at the very beginning, when they have time to rest in leaking tents, pitched in the dusty desert. There are letters from Georgie, filled with scrawled scribbles about the stray cat she's hidden in her bedroom. There are letters from Ma, smelling of barely-veiled worry and the promise of proper meals ("None of that plastic crap you call food.").
There are no letters signed with a slightly pretentious 'S' that always makes the corner of Godric's mouth turn upwards in an almost-smirk.
Pretty soon, the war really begins, and they're constantly on the move through the fine particles of sandstorms, and there is no longer any time for letters at all.
*
Salazar tries to busy himself with the regular bureaucratic nonsense. He reads papers, signs forms, prepares for meetings, gives concise murmured advice to the President. He drinks whatever coffee's available, missing the way Godric's terrible tea would burn his mouth. He attempts to watch the news now and again, but always ends up switching the telly off when the reports of the war come in. He can't stomach the black and white chaos that spill off the screen.
All he can do is to surround himself with noise, while yearning for everything to end, and that works for a while.
012
This is Salazar's job:
From eight to ten, he sits at his desk reading through reports about the Federation and writes his own about possible tactical surveillance.
From ten to one, he and his colleagues presents the facts and their opinions to the President and the rest of the board of the Administration. He takes notes and offers adjustments to others.
From one to two, he goes home, a few blocks down, for lunch. Martha is the cook who eats with him in the kitchen, and Matt is always beside him in case there is an urgent call back to the office. Matt doesn't eat.
From two to five, there are more reports, but this time there are no debates and presentations. These reports come in the form of meetings with his father's friends and other Administration officials. These reports are the ones that really matter.
This is Salazar's real job:
There is a Federal spy close to the President and he's there to find them out.
013
"Coming through, watch it!"
The stretcher lands in front of her station and she rushes forward, snapping latex gloves onto her hands.
The man groans and grits his teeth; his leg has been shredded by enemy fire. Helga looks past the soldier's pain for the moment and focuses on the injury, stemming the blood flow in a few terse minutes and checking for other gunshot wounds.
It doesn't matter that it's her first casualty. All she knows is that he's hardly going to be her last, and she's damn well not going to let any of them die.
*
After the third evacuation warning, schools close down, and everyone stays home. Rowena can't sit still, can't think properly alone, so she runs five streets down and knocks on the door.
"Rowena?" Salazar blinks at her with sleep-bruised eyes.
She steps inside and he lets her cry on his shoulder, and maybe he cries too; she doesn't really look. They sleep on the sofa until daylight streams in, and Salazar has to get up for work.
Somewhere along breakfast, there is a job offer, and Rowena takes it, because she needs to do something besides think.
Her department is on a floor below Salazar's office, so they meet for lunch every afternoon, and don't talk about the people who are missing from their lives. Rowena never asks what Salazar does, although she can tell that there's something deeper. Instead, she distracts herself by distracting him with stories about the new engineering fixes, and maybe it bores him a little, but he doesn't say anything, and the days pass just a little bit faster.
014
He smokes now. It's the one luxury he allows himself, because alcohol makes his mind wander, and he doesn't need that. He buys the same brand that Godric used to get before he joined the army.
Half a pack a day. Self-control is important. They make him feel something beyond tiredness.
He doesn't smoke when Rowena is around, not around Martha either, but Matt knows, because Matt always knows things. He leans back into his chair and faces the window, a day of meetings concluded, and blows out the white into his reflection in the glass.
*
"Are you sure?"
"Yes sir. We have witnesses who can place him outside Malfoy's home, and he's also been caught on camera breaking into Peverell's office. Only one clear frame, I'm afraid. He's a wily one."
"He's inside?"
"Waiting for you, sir. He understands that you want to see him about the President's decoy for the speech on Friday."
"Good. Secure the witnesses and make copies of the tape."
"Yell if you need anything, sir."
*
He doesn't go home now. It's too close. Everything hangs on a fine thread, on him doing his job, and so he stays in his office, the one with the garish carpet. The one with the desk in which a locked drawer hides a scarlet ribbon.
It's lonely and it's quiet, and he doesn't get much sleep. He figures he'll get plenty once it's over.
*
"Crouch, you're under arrest."
The man sneers at them and spits on the floor. Salazar doesn't betray any emotion, even though he's both relieved and enraged; the fucker had tried to attack him with a knife and a gun after all.
The President shakes his hand and goes to address the Administration. Salazar loosens his tie, washes off the blood on his hands, and heads home.
He smokes a cigarette halfway, and stubs it out. Hands Martha the rest of his stash and kisses her goodnight.
It's done, and he goes to bed with a red ribbon tied around his wrist because he can.
015
They have a moment's respite before the final rush, a few hundred soldiers leaning against what's left of brick walls and concrete statues talking excitedly with red-rimmed eyes and smudged cheeks. Godric breathes and tries to think about things and people and times other than the memories of his fallen brothers-in-arms and sisters-in-arms. But the rain hums cold and painful, and he can't not think about familiar comrades made strangers by death.
Dear Georgie, he tries, weary of mortar fire and flashes of adrenaline. I am bone-tired and ready to give up, but I think of your smile and I know I can't. Name the cat Lizzy. She sounds like a Lizzy.
His fellow sergeant - even though no one really cares about rank now that so many are dead - signals that they have two minutes.
Dear Ma, Godric says in his head, grasping his gun tight, thoughts going a little faster now. Ma, I need a goodnight kiss and I promise you I won't sleep, not for a moment, until you give me one. Ma, if I don't come back, I will be sorely disappointed because I've lasted this long knee-deep in crap to not get a proper bed. Ma, kiss Georgie for me, yeah?
One minute. He can hear his men check their weapons for the last time, the clicks hidden under the constant pounding booms a few feet away.
Dear Sal stupid face, you're a stupid fuck for waiting. I love you.
"Onwards!" the cry rings out and echoes among the troops, and Godric yells something unintelligible and fierce and sad and hopeful all at once as he leaps over the bricks and concrete blocks, ignoring the ache in his knees and the rain splattering his neck. They charge, wild yells and furious fire blending in a monstrous rush, and Godric doesn't think of dead bodies anymore. He thinks of home.
016
"The healers will be the last to return to the Administration," the announcer says. "The Republic has assured assistance to both sides of the conflict on evacuating casualties along the borders, but the healers will be slowly withdrawn until all troops are safely brought back. Casualties are now streaming into trauma centres all over the blocs. 57,000 are wounded, and 34,000 are reported dead or missing. Stay tuned for more updates, but first, we have Granger with General Perkins-"
*
Her unit gets called back home on a Tuesday, and she couldn't be happier. There's no way to contact Rowena or anyone, but it almost doesn't matter, really, because they're going home.
*
Salazar's sits quietly in his chair, watching as the parade square bustles with people and spotlights. Technically, he doesn't have a person to wait for. No one to greet at a trauma centre or parade ground. He won't have an officer turn up at his doorstep to offer condolences either.
He downs the beer and waits for the phone to ring. When it does, he listens and thanks the person on the other line, before dialling the Gryffindors' number with trembling fingers.
017
Salazar sits, his face passive. He's the only one there not showing any visible emotion, and for a brief moment, he wonders if that makes him a cold-hearted bastard, but then there's movement and his attention shifts to the person on the bed.
*
The first thing Godric sees when he comes to is his mother's face, followed by piercing green eyes that cut through the white fog that blinds his vision.
The first thing he hears is an annoying buzz in his right ear, punctuated by sobs and breathing, and his own breath crushed out in a hug.
The first thing Godric says is "Hi."
*
He watches as Ma leaves to confer with the healers, clutching Georgie's hand tightly, her voice higher in pitch than usual. His head turns slowly back to see Godric staring at him with a strange expression in his eyes that quickly fades away.
"Hi." Godric's voice is clear by now, no longer clogged with the blur of medicines and sleep.
Salazar keeps quiet for a moment. "Hi, arsehole."
Godric starts to laugh, which erupts into a fit of coughing, not loud enough for his mother to hear, but enough for Salazar to leap out of his chair in a sudden panic. The wheezing soon subsides, and Salazar sits back down, even as Godric clears his throat and grins as he says, "Fuck you."
There's a smile bursting to form on his lips, and Salazar allows it. He can hear the tremor in his next words as they spill out. "Not until those bandages are off, you aren't."
018
He's been home a week now, but he's still skittish, and he hates it. It's the worst during the evenings, when it's quiet but full of sudden sounds - a pan clanking against the wall, a bird chirping outside his window - and shadows.
The schools are slowly opening up again, but Georgie wants to stay home, and that's good, because she and Lizzy and Ma keep him busy and make him walk to the kitchen and back.
It's also inconvenient, because Salazar drops by every day after work, and Georgie has to spend time coaxing Lizzy off of Salazar's lap.
*
She opens the door and Helga's there with a tired smile and a uniform that's crinkled and too big. They don't say anything, just hold each other tight, and after a while they go in.
Helga takes a long shower. Rowena makes some breakfast.
They cry over toast and tea, and they kiss, and they go to bed.
*
They lie side by side on Godric's bed, drink beer, and talk. Godric shares stories about his unit, and pretends that he's not wincing when he mentions names of those he didn't manage to bring home. Salazar tells him the truth about his job, and gives him his ribbon back. They laugh and steal the time in between dinner and supper through kisses behind the closed door.
Sometimes they fight, silent scuffles and unsaid words forming new bruises on both of their skins, but they always make up, because they've come so close to losing that it's stupid to continue.
Most days, they just drink their beers, Salazar's tie wound loosely around Godric's wrist, and Salazar's fingers carded through Godric's hair.
019
He hates lying to Godric, but he does, and he hopes that Godric will understand. That day, he goes straight home after work and has a drink.
They come for him in the dark. He's on his back on his bed, waiting, when the door crashes open. Martha and Matt are gone; he'd sent them away in the evening to celebrate. No need for unnecessary casualties.
There are three of them, and he knows their faces, even though they all wear black hoods. He'd been wondering about the method of his death, lying there as the sun went down.
The sting of the knife registers for a brief moment.
*
It starts as a terrible yawn in his stomach, and Godric tries his best to mouth the word 'no' but it doesn't come out. Then his eyes close and he can't move for the life of him, but he feels his legs stumble forward and hit the side of the dresser. His knee throbs for a moment, then disappears from his senses and reappears again. His eyes open and for a moment he wonders why his vision is so blurry, why Ma and Georgie are all distorted like a broken reflection in a carnival mirror.
He hears his name once, twice. He feels drunk, even though he hasn't truly been since that last time with Salazar. He notes with sudden dull lucidity that it doesn't hurt to say his name, yet.
020
There is a letter in the mailbox when they return home, their laughs buried snugly in the way they lock their hands together. The envelope has been taped shut, and the front is blank with no one's name or address.
Rowena is the one to open it, legs tucked underneath her on the sofa as Helga makes the tea. Her face doesn't change as the words fly by underneath her eyes. When Helga takes it away from her, Rowena moves to the kitchen and drinks the fresh tea, feels it burn in her throat, satisfying. Cloying. Choking.
Helga nods just once when she finishes reading, and throws the letter into the fireplace.
*
There is a letter on Godric's pillow when Georgie bounds in with Lizzy following close behind. The clink of a bell and the soft meow jar her senses as much as the words that fall from the paper and into her heart.
Words like 'goodbye' and 'sorry' and 'love'.
She gives it to Ma when she comes home, and Ma cries, and so does Georgie, finally. They're all tired, but maybe it's for the best.
It's a loving act of rebellion when Georgie keeps the part of the letter that comes after the scribbled 'your son and brother' and burns the rest.
*
There is a letter in the landlady’'s hand. He exchanges it for a few quid and slips inside, his exhaustion heavy in his shoes.
The bedroom door is open, and the sea air's rushing in, all salty and clean and simple. There's a small potted plant on the coffee table, shifting its leaves in the breeze. He ties a green ribbon to it and places the plant on the windowsill to catch the fading light.
He takes a shower, and rustles up some dinner.
He waits.
Summary: Post-Disaster, the world has been rebuilt by several major powers, including the Administration and the Federation. No one wants war, but the cracks mean that it is inevitable, even if the other powers stand aside. Based loosely on Icarus [Edward Field], Waiting for Icarus [Muriel Rukeyser], and Icarus [Jose F Rosado]. The title of this fic comes from the latter poem. 20 little vignettes. A relatively open ending.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Godric/Salazar, Helga/Rowena, OCs
Genre: AU, angst
Rating: PG; slight swearing + non-graphic violence
Warnings: [Spoiler (click to open)]Character death?
Word Count: 6685
Author's Notes: For hh_sugarquill's Big Bang. Betas were c_hrista and etacanis <3
* "Celer, Silens, Mortalis": comes from the US Marine Corps, specifically the motto of the Marine Force Reconnaissance companies, and means "Swift, Silent, Deadly".
001
"I don't like you," the girl says, clutching her book with the torn and scribbled pages.
Godric feels a little guilty, but it had been left alone on the table with no name on it. A warrior also needs to know when to give in, though, so he mutters a quiet 'sorry' and hopes that she won't tell on him to the instructor.
He likes the instructor. She smells of freshly ironed wool.
The other girl, the one with the bright yellow band around her waist, grins at Godric. "Oh, Ro. He's said sorry, now, hasn't he? It's his first day, after all. Let's go play forts, yeah?" She tugs the other girl's elbow, and they leave for the wooden blocks scattered at the other end of the room.
Godric decides that he hates school. His shirt is an old one of Da's, too big for his shoulders. His trousers are all right, he supposes, but there are patches on the knees, because he'd tried to get Georgie's ribbon down from the tree in their backyard a week ago, and had scraped himself on the bark coming down. His own ribbon is faded and tied defiantly around the top of his head. The rest of the children have clothes that aren't brand new - no one has brand new clothes anyway - but they fit and aren't too faded.
He kicks the floor and pouts, leaning against his desk, until he hears a soft 'hi' from beside him. The boy is thin and looks wooden, if Godric's being honest.
"Hi." Ma told him to make friends, after all. He gives the boy a quick flash of his teeth. Ma always said that he had a nice smile.
"I'm, uhm, Salazar. Slytherin." Salazar holds out his hand, clean and pale. His ribbon is an emerald green, and tied around his wrist. Godric pretends to not notice the red ruler marks peeping out from under the satin. "Instructor says we have the desks next to each other."
Godric grasps the offered hand firmly, like Ma said, and introduces himself. He thinks he likes Salazar, even though he can't help but compare his crisp slacks and ironed shirt and neat hair with Godric's own crumpled outfit and messy curls.
They spend the rest of Break discussing Strategy and Physical classes, and strike up a deal, because Salazar knows all about the former, and Godric's good at the latter. Godric goes home with a smile on his face and Salazar's extra pencil in his hand.
002
This is what the world is, children, do pay attention. Yes, you, Gryffindor. For shame; you are a Red! You need to know what you're fighting for.
This is what the world is. There is the Administration. Greens, you will grow up to work with the finest men and women our bloc can offer. The Administration takes care of us. They are responsible for our quarters, our rations, and our education. Everything is systematic and efficient because of the Administration.
This is what the world is. There are different Houses. Reds are warriors. Yes, Gryffindor, no need to shout. Yellows are healers. That's right, Hufflepuff, now stop waving the stethoscope about; you're going to put Smith's eye out. No hitting your House fellows, remember that, children. No, Gryffindor, that does not give you reason to hit other Houses too. Greens are diplomats and politicians. Don't look so pompous, Malfoy, you will need to serve in order to lead. And Blues are instructors. Ravenclaw, dear, do put that book down. I know you know all this already, but everyone needs to listen. It's mandatory. Gryffindor, don't pester Ravenclaw for the definition of 'mandatory'. Just listen, and you can have a look at the dictionary later.
This is what the world is. There are Classes of people from different backgrounds. But we all come together as one, children, to school, and why? Yes, Patil, it's mandatory, but why else, children? Come on now, we've talked about it before! Yes, Slytherin? Right, well done. All together now. Including you, Gryffindor, and you, Potter! No skiving. Harmony. Together we are strong. We may be in different Houses and different Classes, but we need to stick together, otherwise the Disaster will happen again, and we don't want that, do we? Especially now that we're being bullied by the Federation. Gryffindor, do put down that sword. I'm sure Slytherin and Black want their hair to remain intact.
This is what the world is. The Administration is sure that we are going to be at war in a little less than a decade, from what they are seeing from the Federation. We all have to do our part; do remember that, children. Now run along, and remember to play nice with each other. Gryffindor, you can have your sword back, dear.
003
"I'm going to be a healer," Helga sings. "A healer, a healer."
Godric flicks a blade of grass at her, grinning. "We know that already. All Yellow fellows are healers, Puff."
"A war healer, then, pedant." Helga nods towards the slight figure of Salazar in the distance. "Speaking of, he looks sad. What's with the two of you knobheads?"
He doesn't mean to stare, but he does. Salazar's leaning against the tree (their tree) in the middle of the field, talking to Rowena, his voice too low for the wind to carry.
Godric swallows and looks away. "We had a fight."
"About what? I haven't seen both of you like this since that incident with the dyed hair." Helga kicks his foot, making to sit up from the ground, a flower in her braids. "Oi, come on. Did you do something?"
Godric shreds the leaf in his hands, scowling. "I… I might have kissed him."
Helga just looks at him with that motherly look, the one caught in between frustration and laughter. "Oh. You might have kissed him. Really? How did you manage that? Did you fall onto him and then instantly concuss yourself?"
"Fuck you." He throws the ruined leaf away, glancing at Salazar and not expecting green eyes to flash and meet his own blue ones. His heart beats twice; Salazar turns back to Rowena. "We were studying in his room and I kissed him, and he pushed me away, and I might ha- I called him a coward, and then I left. I don't think… I don't think he likes me that way, anyway, so."
Helga calls him an arse right off, an assessment he sort of agrees with. "He's scared, you dumbo. Anyone in their right mind can see that you two are meant for each other, and don't you make that face, Romeo. He likes you, you like him. Easy as pie. It's the whole kissing him out of the blue in his father's house - you know how his old man is, Gryffindor, and you still did it, prickhead - and calling him a coward - even though you know he hates being called that, and he isn't one anyway - that you bollocksed up!" She shoves him hard enough to roll him back onto his back on the grass, and stands up, towering over him with her messy hair and motherly look.
"You," she says, pointing her finger squarely at Godric. "You need to go apologise to him. Bend that ego of yours and say you're sorry. Don't kiss him. Hold his fucking hand if he looks like he's halfway to forgiving you." She kicks him lightly on the shin, and Godric can feel his cheeks burning. He hates to apologise, and she knows it. "Go over there, now, and maybe I'll let you copy my Health notes."
Godric stands up with as much dignity as he can muster with a red face and thumping chest. "Thanks, Puff."
*
"Here he comes," Rowena whispers. "Listen to him, all right, and don't speak until he's done explaining himself. And for heaven's sake, Salazar, smile, or at least keep a frown from your face. You look scary like that."
Salazar nods. He doesn't turn around even as he hears Godric approach, just stares straight ahead as the other boy greets Rowena and moves to stand beside Salazar against the tree. Their tree.
*
"Boys." Helga snorts, her fingers in Rowena's dark locks, her eyes narrowed at the two figures up the hill. "So bloody stubborn, the two of them."
"Well, the old adage that opposites attract is a lie." Rowena winces as Helga tugs a little too hard. "Careful, Helga, I want braids, not a bald scalp. Anyway, that piece of conventional wisdom is total shit. Most people look for people who are similar to them, it's been proven. Salazar and Godric are two sides of the same coin."
Helga lets out a soft 'hmph', still watching, even as she twists the strands of hair into an intricate pattern. "They don't have time for fighting. Now that the war's almost here."
"No, they don't." Rowena's fingers reach up to tap Helga on her wrist. "You're really applying for military school, then?"
"Yes." The fingers stop for a beat, then continue. Helga's voice is low when she says, "I leave just after Godric does."
"Two months, then." Rowena's voice catches on the last word, and she swallows, turning her attention to the book in her hand, pretending to read, as Helga weaves her blue ribbon through her hair.
004
Red is the colour of the warrior. Elena has a picture of Godric from when he was a baby framed and hung over the mantelpiece. It's the only picture she has of anyone. She remains adamant that it should stay there, even when Godric passes through the ages from embarrassed teen to mature (well, as much as Godric could be mature anyway) adult. It's a lovely photograph, from back when people took photographs, and it's in colour, which is even better. Godric's eyes shine fiercely at the camera, his skin pale against the crimson cloth, his chubby fingers exploring the gold pin marked with the Gryffindor family crest.
Now, Godric's tall, strong, muscular. A soldier. He comes home every few weeks in his uniform, the drab olives matching well with his tanned skin. His fingers are slender, calloused from handling all kinds of weapons that Elena doesn't want to know about. His eyes still have that gleam in them, but it's faded a tad now, seriousness taking over, and every time she looks into them, when they say goodbye too soon, Elena misses her little baby, the one with the megawatt smile that reminds her so much of Godric's father.
*
"Son." He stares at the scrawny lad and frowns. "Stop fidgeting, Salazar. A gentleman, much less a scholarly diplomat, does not wriggle about. One must always maintain an image."
The young man blinks and stiffens his body ramrod straight.
"Good. Now tell me about the history of the Administration, and then discuss how our President might so be advised on the current situation with the eastern bloc of the Federation."
005
Basic training is meant to be tough, a test of grit, and it turns out to be one that Godric absolutely loves. He was never one for academics, anyway. That he would much rather leave to swots like the Greens and the Blues, although he has to admit that the Greens and Blues in Basic are as fierce as the Reds. Well, at least they're officers and get the pleasures of filing papers and working out strategy. Godric's happy enough right now as a grunt.
The standard obstacle course is his favourite, even though the other recruits moan about it all the fucking time. Godric slides up the ropes and wooden buildings with burning muscles and a memory of shimmying up the tree in the backyard back home, a grin never truly forming on his face ("Soldiers do not fucking smile, recruit!").
He misses Ma and Georgie and Salazar for a bit at the start, but shrugs it off. It's not war yet; he still gets packages of food from home now and then, along with Advanced Strategy notes from Salazar that he barters for extra sweets from junior officers-in-training. ("They're for you to read, arsehole!" "My body needs the calories, Sal!") Godric regrets the latter at the end of the passing out parade, after his training officer tells him that he's up for specialist school. Salazar just smirks, and Godric doesn't know whether to hit him or kiss him when he produces a copy of the handwritten papers.
*
He likes the quiet of his work. It's not as glamourous as they show it on the telly for most of them, no press conferences and benign waves to the few video cameras that still function. He likes the shuffle of the pages as he peruses for information, and even though it's stressful to be taking on more and more practical tasks (rather than practice scenarios drawn up by his father), he enjoys the challenge.
His father still calls him to his office to discuss the bloc's policies, but they're real discussions with aides and mysterious men that don't talk. He knows he's being groomed for something, but he doesn't ask what or why, because the ruler marks are old but still freshly imprinted on the underside of his skin. ("Patience is the hallmark of a man. If one does not learn how to take lessons from time, one is a fool, Salazar. Dismissed.")
There are Physical lessons that he hates, but it helps to think back of Godric at the end of a gruelling sparring round, stretching out a sweaty hand for Salazar to grab. When Godric finishes Basic and has a fortnight off before heading off for specialist training, he joins in with Salazar's training. ("Hello, Sally… zar. Good afternoon, sir." "Hmph. Gryffindor. We begin in three minutes.") Salazar isn't surprised when Godric manages to flip him over in record time, but is pleasantly shocked when he manages to win one round out of five.
006
It's the first time that his father has touched him in years. All that time, there had always been a space in between their bodies, occasionally bridged by a ruler, the wooden one that still lies on his father's desk, or the morning paper, or official legislative books. The hand in his hand feels unfamiliar. It's rough, calloused, and sharp with age and weariness. The wedding ring is warm, and Salazar can feel the letters against his thumb, spelling out his mother's name.
"Salazar," his father rasps, blinking. "You need to be strong. Don't let us down."
He nods. The chair feels sturdy under his weight. It's only the sensation of falling, he tells himself absently.
"Our motto, boy, remember that. Celer, Silens, Mortalis." He inclines his head in a firm dismissal, and slackens his grip. Salazar leaves the bedroom. The healer comes out an hour later and pats his shoulder.
He doesn't cry or show any emotion until he reaches the bathroom, splashing cold water on himself until it hurts. Later, he gives firm handshakes, accepting condolences from his new colleagues and staff, a perfect picture of a politician, just like how his father had taught him.
007
"You're all important now," Godric says with a bemused smile, marching da-dum da-dum in his boots around Salazar's new office.
It's not really new, per se; Salazar has had it for a month now, but he's hardly spent a week in it. The papers lying on the desk are still devoid of ink other than the official letterhead, and the bookcase hasn't been touched, other than the newest edition of the Administrative Code that Salazar's sliding back into place onto its shelf.
"Not too important for you, I hope," he replies quietly, moving to stand beside Godric, looking out of the large window behind his desk over at the empty parade ground. "You have permission to kick my arse if I get too cocky."
Godric glances at him before letting out a bark of laughter that is almost swallowed up by the rich carpet. Salazar thinks it's unnecessary and tacky, the carpet. "You're never cocky, Sally. Arrogant and confident, yeah, but I invented cocky. Sir."
They stand in silence for a few minutes, Godric unconsciously rubbing his pinky finger against Salazar's. Salazar lets them indulge. The guards are outside, and there are not enough cameras for every office.
"What do you do anyway?"
"Can't tell you, Gryffindor, or you'll blab to the whole fucking world."
"Fuck you, Slytherin." Godric's tone is easygoing as always, but his body's thrumming with curiosity.
Salazar tells him that he's one of the President's main strategists. It's half of the truth, the other unspoken half burning his throat, lodged there ever since those months ago in his father's office.
"They tell us war's coming. Less than a year now."
"Well, we'll just have to make the most of time, then."
*
She stands on tiptoe, straining her eyes to spot a figure she knows all too well. Her hair's in a messy braid, the navy blue ribbon flapping in the wind, and her uniform is creased from the press of the crowd, but Rowena doesn't care, because suddenly there's a warm laugh and a hug, and Helga's there.
"Aw, Ro, I've missed you!"
Rowena's not going to cry, but she's not going to speak either, her lips pressed tight against Helga's neck.
"Oh, Ro." Helga's palm pats the back of Rowena's uniform soothingly, and Rowena remembers to breathe. "C'mon, let's not give these buggers a show, yeah?"
Rowena finally lets go and takes in the lean muscles of Helga's arms, and the dark circles under her eyes, and the familiar half-smile she sports.
008
After the party, they lie down on Godric's bed and look up at the ceiling, side by side. They catalogue the cracks in the paint, the whirring of the fan, the brush of their hands. Godric's still in his dress uniform, the starch and wax and pins and badges shining dully in the burn of the full moon. Salazar reaches out blindly and places his palm on Godric's stomach, feeling him breathe under the cotton, feeling Godric under soldier.
The house is silent when they finally kiss, Salazar on his feet against the wall next to the open window, Godric pressed against him so hard that Salazar is sure that he'll have indents from the buttons and badges on his skin in the morning. The kiss is biting and fast, and Salazar struggles to keep up as they lick into each other's mouths, their breaths turning into gasps into barely-suppressed moans.
In the morning, Salazar finds himself waking up to Godric snoring into his ear. It's ticklish, and slightly loud, but Salazar stays as still as possible, trying to memorise every bit of the not-dream that was the night before. A bruise on his shoulder pulses faintly, dragging a pull down into his belly, and Godric smirks against Salazar's neck as he wakes.
009
Georgie sits in front of the telly. The picture is fuzzy and flickers every few seconds, but the sound is clear enough. Ma's watching from the kitchen, her pale fingers gripped tight around the fork she's using to mash the potatoes.
Georgie doesn't think either of them will have much dinner later.
*
"Instructor, what does war mean?" The little boy is curled up into her side, and Rowena tries to dash the fear and sadness in her voice as she answers.
"Well, love. War is a conflict carried on by a force of arms, if you go by the dictionary, but I do think dictionaries are useless for a proper explanation." An anxious smile escapes her as she squeezes the boy's shoulder. "War is a period of time where people leave and some don't come back even if we want them to. It's pain and it's suffering and it's anger, and it never ends sooner than it should."
"Then why must we have it in the first place?" His face is open and innocent, brow furrowed in confusion. Rowena doesn't know how to answer him, and is glad when a voice calls out in the late afternoon.
The boy runs to his mother with wide arms and leaps into a worried hug.
Rowena stumbles back into the classroom and starts to cry.
*
They've been busy for days, but it's still not enough. Lunch is a quick bite in between stockpiling emergency supplies and packing extra medical kits for the troops on the ground.
Helga doesn't rest yet, even when they've finished boxing up the last of the kits and sent them off to Alpha Company. The other Healers are chivvied off to dinner by her, and she laughs just to make them smile, but it rings hollow and she hates it.
"Hello?" she says into the telephone, alone in the hall that's too clean and too empty. "Ro?"
She doesn't have dinner, just the slice of pudding that her second-in-command presses into her hand. The sweet chocolate on her tongue tastes marginally better with a bit of salt.
*
It's cold and dark in his office. He leans against the window, back facing the parade square, and doesn't reach for his jacket draped on the chair in front of him.
The tears fall, and his fingers tremble as he lights the cigarette Godric left behind.
*
"Soldiers, we are called into duty today to fight. I ask you to forget about the Administration, and about your family. I ask you to remember that you are a soldier of our training, men and women that will, with no questions asked, win.
"Many of you will come back injured. Some will not return. But all of you will perform your duty proudly. I am assured of this.
"The Administration and our President have given their orders. We move at oh three hundred tomorrow morning. Dismissed."
*
The lights go out, and the barracks immediately fall silent. No more shuffling of bedclothes, no more prayers. No snores, no whispered dreams. The wind gushes loudly into the rooms, whistles past the bunks, and echoes to find nothing.
Godric stands at attention, uniform stifling for the first time since the first day of basic, and tries not to think of anything other than the mission plan. It doesn't work for the first few minutes, with flashes of green eyes and Georgie's hair and the smell of Ma's cooking interrupting his commander's voice, but then his training kicks in; his posture stiffens even tighter, and all that's left are coordinates and protocols and the bittersweet bruise of a bite aching on his hip.
010
"At five o'clock this morning, our forces engaged Federal troops along the border of the western bloc of the Administration. The Army has also been deployed to defend the eastern perimeter. In other news, the Republic still maintains its neutral position on the conflict, but has acknowledged both the Administration's and the Federation's requests for medical assistance in the event of casualties.
Citizens are reminded to remain inside after dark, and to tune in to the regular news broadcasts every hour."
011
There are letters at the very beginning, when they have time to rest in leaking tents, pitched in the dusty desert. There are letters from Georgie, filled with scrawled scribbles about the stray cat she's hidden in her bedroom. There are letters from Ma, smelling of barely-veiled worry and the promise of proper meals ("None of that plastic crap you call food.").
There are no letters signed with a slightly pretentious 'S' that always makes the corner of Godric's mouth turn upwards in an almost-smirk.
Pretty soon, the war really begins, and they're constantly on the move through the fine particles of sandstorms, and there is no longer any time for letters at all.
*
Salazar tries to busy himself with the regular bureaucratic nonsense. He reads papers, signs forms, prepares for meetings, gives concise murmured advice to the President. He drinks whatever coffee's available, missing the way Godric's terrible tea would burn his mouth. He attempts to watch the news now and again, but always ends up switching the telly off when the reports of the war come in. He can't stomach the black and white chaos that spill off the screen.
All he can do is to surround himself with noise, while yearning for everything to end, and that works for a while.
012
This is Salazar's job:
From eight to ten, he sits at his desk reading through reports about the Federation and writes his own about possible tactical surveillance.
From ten to one, he and his colleagues presents the facts and their opinions to the President and the rest of the board of the Administration. He takes notes and offers adjustments to others.
From one to two, he goes home, a few blocks down, for lunch. Martha is the cook who eats with him in the kitchen, and Matt is always beside him in case there is an urgent call back to the office. Matt doesn't eat.
From two to five, there are more reports, but this time there are no debates and presentations. These reports come in the form of meetings with his father's friends and other Administration officials. These reports are the ones that really matter.
This is Salazar's real job:
There is a Federal spy close to the President and he's there to find them out.
013
"Coming through, watch it!"
The stretcher lands in front of her station and she rushes forward, snapping latex gloves onto her hands.
The man groans and grits his teeth; his leg has been shredded by enemy fire. Helga looks past the soldier's pain for the moment and focuses on the injury, stemming the blood flow in a few terse minutes and checking for other gunshot wounds.
It doesn't matter that it's her first casualty. All she knows is that he's hardly going to be her last, and she's damn well not going to let any of them die.
*
After the third evacuation warning, schools close down, and everyone stays home. Rowena can't sit still, can't think properly alone, so she runs five streets down and knocks on the door.
"Rowena?" Salazar blinks at her with sleep-bruised eyes.
She steps inside and he lets her cry on his shoulder, and maybe he cries too; she doesn't really look. They sleep on the sofa until daylight streams in, and Salazar has to get up for work.
Somewhere along breakfast, there is a job offer, and Rowena takes it, because she needs to do something besides think.
Her department is on a floor below Salazar's office, so they meet for lunch every afternoon, and don't talk about the people who are missing from their lives. Rowena never asks what Salazar does, although she can tell that there's something deeper. Instead, she distracts herself by distracting him with stories about the new engineering fixes, and maybe it bores him a little, but he doesn't say anything, and the days pass just a little bit faster.
014
He smokes now. It's the one luxury he allows himself, because alcohol makes his mind wander, and he doesn't need that. He buys the same brand that Godric used to get before he joined the army.
Half a pack a day. Self-control is important. They make him feel something beyond tiredness.
He doesn't smoke when Rowena is around, not around Martha either, but Matt knows, because Matt always knows things. He leans back into his chair and faces the window, a day of meetings concluded, and blows out the white into his reflection in the glass.
*
"Are you sure?"
"Yes sir. We have witnesses who can place him outside Malfoy's home, and he's also been caught on camera breaking into Peverell's office. Only one clear frame, I'm afraid. He's a wily one."
"He's inside?"
"Waiting for you, sir. He understands that you want to see him about the President's decoy for the speech on Friday."
"Good. Secure the witnesses and make copies of the tape."
"Yell if you need anything, sir."
*
He doesn't go home now. It's too close. Everything hangs on a fine thread, on him doing his job, and so he stays in his office, the one with the garish carpet. The one with the desk in which a locked drawer hides a scarlet ribbon.
It's lonely and it's quiet, and he doesn't get much sleep. He figures he'll get plenty once it's over.
*
"Crouch, you're under arrest."
The man sneers at them and spits on the floor. Salazar doesn't betray any emotion, even though he's both relieved and enraged; the fucker had tried to attack him with a knife and a gun after all.
The President shakes his hand and goes to address the Administration. Salazar loosens his tie, washes off the blood on his hands, and heads home.
He smokes a cigarette halfway, and stubs it out. Hands Martha the rest of his stash and kisses her goodnight.
It's done, and he goes to bed with a red ribbon tied around his wrist because he can.
015
They have a moment's respite before the final rush, a few hundred soldiers leaning against what's left of brick walls and concrete statues talking excitedly with red-rimmed eyes and smudged cheeks. Godric breathes and tries to think about things and people and times other than the memories of his fallen brothers-in-arms and sisters-in-arms. But the rain hums cold and painful, and he can't not think about familiar comrades made strangers by death.
Dear Georgie, he tries, weary of mortar fire and flashes of adrenaline. I am bone-tired and ready to give up, but I think of your smile and I know I can't. Name the cat Lizzy. She sounds like a Lizzy.
His fellow sergeant - even though no one really cares about rank now that so many are dead - signals that they have two minutes.
Dear Ma, Godric says in his head, grasping his gun tight, thoughts going a little faster now. Ma, I need a goodnight kiss and I promise you I won't sleep, not for a moment, until you give me one. Ma, if I don't come back, I will be sorely disappointed because I've lasted this long knee-deep in crap to not get a proper bed. Ma, kiss Georgie for me, yeah?
One minute. He can hear his men check their weapons for the last time, the clicks hidden under the constant pounding booms a few feet away.
Dear Sal stupid face, you're a stupid fuck for waiting. I love you.
"Onwards!" the cry rings out and echoes among the troops, and Godric yells something unintelligible and fierce and sad and hopeful all at once as he leaps over the bricks and concrete blocks, ignoring the ache in his knees and the rain splattering his neck. They charge, wild yells and furious fire blending in a monstrous rush, and Godric doesn't think of dead bodies anymore. He thinks of home.
016
"The healers will be the last to return to the Administration," the announcer says. "The Republic has assured assistance to both sides of the conflict on evacuating casualties along the borders, but the healers will be slowly withdrawn until all troops are safely brought back. Casualties are now streaming into trauma centres all over the blocs. 57,000 are wounded, and 34,000 are reported dead or missing. Stay tuned for more updates, but first, we have Granger with General Perkins-"
*
Her unit gets called back home on a Tuesday, and she couldn't be happier. There's no way to contact Rowena or anyone, but it almost doesn't matter, really, because they're going home.
*
Salazar's sits quietly in his chair, watching as the parade square bustles with people and spotlights. Technically, he doesn't have a person to wait for. No one to greet at a trauma centre or parade ground. He won't have an officer turn up at his doorstep to offer condolences either.
He downs the beer and waits for the phone to ring. When it does, he listens and thanks the person on the other line, before dialling the Gryffindors' number with trembling fingers.
017
Salazar sits, his face passive. He's the only one there not showing any visible emotion, and for a brief moment, he wonders if that makes him a cold-hearted bastard, but then there's movement and his attention shifts to the person on the bed.
*
The first thing Godric sees when he comes to is his mother's face, followed by piercing green eyes that cut through the white fog that blinds his vision.
The first thing he hears is an annoying buzz in his right ear, punctuated by sobs and breathing, and his own breath crushed out in a hug.
The first thing Godric says is "Hi."
*
He watches as Ma leaves to confer with the healers, clutching Georgie's hand tightly, her voice higher in pitch than usual. His head turns slowly back to see Godric staring at him with a strange expression in his eyes that quickly fades away.
"Hi." Godric's voice is clear by now, no longer clogged with the blur of medicines and sleep.
Salazar keeps quiet for a moment. "Hi, arsehole."
Godric starts to laugh, which erupts into a fit of coughing, not loud enough for his mother to hear, but enough for Salazar to leap out of his chair in a sudden panic. The wheezing soon subsides, and Salazar sits back down, even as Godric clears his throat and grins as he says, "Fuck you."
There's a smile bursting to form on his lips, and Salazar allows it. He can hear the tremor in his next words as they spill out. "Not until those bandages are off, you aren't."
018
He's been home a week now, but he's still skittish, and he hates it. It's the worst during the evenings, when it's quiet but full of sudden sounds - a pan clanking against the wall, a bird chirping outside his window - and shadows.
The schools are slowly opening up again, but Georgie wants to stay home, and that's good, because she and Lizzy and Ma keep him busy and make him walk to the kitchen and back.
It's also inconvenient, because Salazar drops by every day after work, and Georgie has to spend time coaxing Lizzy off of Salazar's lap.
*
She opens the door and Helga's there with a tired smile and a uniform that's crinkled and too big. They don't say anything, just hold each other tight, and after a while they go in.
Helga takes a long shower. Rowena makes some breakfast.
They cry over toast and tea, and they kiss, and they go to bed.
*
They lie side by side on Godric's bed, drink beer, and talk. Godric shares stories about his unit, and pretends that he's not wincing when he mentions names of those he didn't manage to bring home. Salazar tells him the truth about his job, and gives him his ribbon back. They laugh and steal the time in between dinner and supper through kisses behind the closed door.
Sometimes they fight, silent scuffles and unsaid words forming new bruises on both of their skins, but they always make up, because they've come so close to losing that it's stupid to continue.
Most days, they just drink their beers, Salazar's tie wound loosely around Godric's wrist, and Salazar's fingers carded through Godric's hair.
019
He hates lying to Godric, but he does, and he hopes that Godric will understand. That day, he goes straight home after work and has a drink.
They come for him in the dark. He's on his back on his bed, waiting, when the door crashes open. Martha and Matt are gone; he'd sent them away in the evening to celebrate. No need for unnecessary casualties.
There are three of them, and he knows their faces, even though they all wear black hoods. He'd been wondering about the method of his death, lying there as the sun went down.
The sting of the knife registers for a brief moment.
*
It starts as a terrible yawn in his stomach, and Godric tries his best to mouth the word 'no' but it doesn't come out. Then his eyes close and he can't move for the life of him, but he feels his legs stumble forward and hit the side of the dresser. His knee throbs for a moment, then disappears from his senses and reappears again. His eyes open and for a moment he wonders why his vision is so blurry, why Ma and Georgie are all distorted like a broken reflection in a carnival mirror.
He hears his name once, twice. He feels drunk, even though he hasn't truly been since that last time with Salazar. He notes with sudden dull lucidity that it doesn't hurt to say his name, yet.
020
There is a letter in the mailbox when they return home, their laughs buried snugly in the way they lock their hands together. The envelope has been taped shut, and the front is blank with no one's name or address.
Rowena is the one to open it, legs tucked underneath her on the sofa as Helga makes the tea. Her face doesn't change as the words fly by underneath her eyes. When Helga takes it away from her, Rowena moves to the kitchen and drinks the fresh tea, feels it burn in her throat, satisfying. Cloying. Choking.
Helga nods just once when she finishes reading, and throws the letter into the fireplace.
*
There is a letter on Godric's pillow when Georgie bounds in with Lizzy following close behind. The clink of a bell and the soft meow jar her senses as much as the words that fall from the paper and into her heart.
Words like 'goodbye' and 'sorry' and 'love'.
She gives it to Ma when she comes home, and Ma cries, and so does Georgie, finally. They're all tired, but maybe it's for the best.
It's a loving act of rebellion when Georgie keeps the part of the letter that comes after the scribbled 'your son and brother' and burns the rest.
*
There is a letter in the landlady’'s hand. He exchanges it for a few quid and slips inside, his exhaustion heavy in his shoes.
The bedroom door is open, and the sea air's rushing in, all salty and clean and simple. There's a small potted plant on the coffee table, shifting its leaves in the breeze. He ties a green ribbon to it and places the plant on the windowsill to catch the fading light.
He takes a shower, and rustles up some dinner.
He waits.