Part II - Letters
"In a man's letters you know, Madam, his soul lies naked, his letters are only the mirror of his breast, whatever passes within him is shown undisguised in its natural process. Nothing is inverted, nothing distorted, you see systems in their elements, you discover actions in their motives."
Letter from Lt Kennedy, HMS 'Renown', to Guido di Cesare, London
8th July, 1799
"Guido,
"A note before we sail.
"Thank you for the gift of your book - and yes, you fool, I accept both the gift and the sentiments which you so badly expressed in the sending of it. I am still recovering from the most punishing hangover it has ever been my misfortune to suffer, and assure you that you may consider yourself fortunate not to be bearing the same. From what I can remember of the evening, we did our best to drain Portsmouth of liquor, though memory does seem to fail me after the ninth inn. Since neither of us were arrested, I am assuming that we did little to breach the peace, though perhaps this was merely good fortune on our parts."
/Definitely good fortune,/ Archie reflected as he put down the pen for a moment and wondered what to say next. Guido's half-joking phrase 'confined to my cell' had made both Horatio and himself laugh hysterically the night before, beer and euphoria granting them vivid mental images of the Conte prowling his room like a caged tiger. In the light of too early a morning and unpleasant sobriety, however, it provided Archie with a sadder picture, that of a man who hated to be confined in any way trapped by his own body.
Well, if Guido's only chance at getting out of the house was vicarious, Archie decided that was exactly what he would bloody well get, ship, routine, boredom and all.
/And I'd better be careful about this, because if he thinks for a second that I pity him, this isn't going to be a correspondence, it's going to be a short sharp declaration of hostilities and a hell of a lot of silence. So if he can hide behind words, I'd better start doing the same, until I find out what course to steer with the prickly bastard./
"It would indeed be pleasant to maintain a correspondence with you during our voyage, given that you have so kindly provided me with poetry enough to keep my few leisure moments well-occupied - a little discussion on the matter would be most enjoyable. I recognise that dispatch vessels and your duties being what they are, there will be little time for either of us to pursue this, but nonetheless, I would be glad to hear from you on occasion."
That seemed to cover all eventualities. He /would/ be glad to hear from Guido, even if all the poor sod could talk about at the moment was his damn poetry and whatever books Hal had decided should be in a gentleman's library.
/Stupid thornbush of a man. Sends us his most valued bloody possession, and writes it off as though he'd sent us a shilling each in the post. Mind you, then there's Horatio's wonderful concept of 'he didn't mean it for me, he just wanted to put my name to something, so you should keep it' - and on second thoughts, maybe I'm *glad* Guido wasn't in Portsmouth, because the thought of refereeing those two again is up there with a quick refresher course at El Ferrol./
But there was more to write, more to carefully almost-say, to give Guido an assurance that their friendship would remain unchanged no matter /how/ incapacitated he was physically.
/So wrap your concern in humour, Lieutenant Kennedy, step over the eggshells, and point out that Hal's not the only one who cares whether a certain spy commander lives or dies in the next few months./
"I take it that you are at least attempting to show the glimmerings of common sense by adapting to a more sedentary lifestyle - I also want to reassure you that I am quite sure it will not be enforced for long. I trust Hal to sit on you until /he/ feels you are recovered, as I regret to inform you that I trust his judgement in this one matter at least far more than I do yours. Your regard for your own well being is cavalier at best, and while I acknowledge that I may lose friends over the years, I have no intention of spending my next shore leave visiting your tomb. The more careful you are in these early days, the faster you will recover in the end, and there will be less chance of you being 'confined to your cell' for the rest of the summer."
With a sudden, unexpected viciousness, he wished that it was Hal that he was writing to, so that he could say exactly what he was thinking for once.
/Just one bloody time in my rule-bound life, just for one /sodding/ moment, could I please be allowed to say what I think and not have to worry about how everyone's going to react?/
He laid the pen down, and put his head in his hands, wondering what the hell he was doing, writing to a man who he had not seen for months, and had, in fact, shown every sign of being eager to disappear back into the murk of the intelligence system from which he had emerged last winter.
/Doing what he asked,/ he thought ruefully, and scribbled a closing paragraph, eager to be done with the thing and send it off, to be probably unanswered and hopefully forgotten by both writer and recipient.
"I enclose for Hal a list of the playhouses he might find to his liking, though I recognise they may have changed since my last visit to London. Look after yourselves until our return, when I look forward to renewing our acquaintanceship in person.
Yrs,
Archie."
/Ah, Guido, what can I really say to you? That Horatio hasn't even scribbled a postscript, and never will, because like everything else that's uncomfortable in his life, he's pushed you and Hal to one side? Can I ask how Hal is? If either of you will ever truly recover from the years that led up to that morning in Toulouse? If the papers I handed over did any good? Guido, can I ask you the things that I want to know, the things that Horatio began to ask me during the fog and the pain that were El Ferrol, the --/
*Did you have a sweetheart in England, Archie?*
/--things that everyone seems to take for granted in life, unless their years have been spent on a ship, or on brief and hurried leave, where all that matters is release? Guido, can you tell me what it is like to share love, to be in love, to be loved by a woman, will you tell me what it was like for you when you were happy, will you tell me everything and anything that I never got the chance to find out? And oh my friend, will you believe me when I say that I am so, so sorry that you lost her, and that I remember you saying you didn't want your ghosts to leave? You offered your friendship to me, Conte, but what I need to know is this. Can you find it in yourself, with all that I have told you, and all that you have discovered and surmised about my past, to let me offer my friendship in return?/
He opened the shabby little octavo book, carefully turning the pasted-in leaves and the insertions that threatened to escape, looking for some sign that this correspondence would not be just another duty, that it was not Guido's way of turning him into another spy, of collecting his precious information under the guise of friendship.
Underlining scored the pages, most of the print hard to find between the scrawled notes in Guido's oddly slanted, loopless writing, where every letter that should have curved was comprised of quickly marked strokes, his comments a scratched flicker of black down every margin.
One sentence, notable only for the fact that there was only one remark by it, caught Archie's eye, and gave him his answer as to the genuineness of Guido's letter.
'What need'st thou wound with cunning', he had underlined, and beside it was written, in tiny letters, "I do not. I have knives for that." Typically irreverent, horribly accurate, and confirmation, if Archie had needed any, that the chances of it even /occurring/ to the spy commander that he could use Archie as an unwitting spy were not only remote, but unlikely enough that they had entered the realm of the impossible.
/Damnation take the lot of it, rules and all,/ Archie decided, and closed the book with a little reassuring pat, as though it had feelings that might be hurt at so brief an inspection. He picked up his pen again, and consigning Horatio's scruples to the bilges where they belonged, scribbled his own postscript.
"P.S. Horatio is well, though I have not seen him to ask about any message he may have wished to send with this letter. I will give you any news of him, for although he did not believe your book and letter were meant for us both, I know they were, and will honour your request accordingly. Matthews and Styles are aboard the 'Renown' with us, you may be pleased to hear, and if you wish, I shall tell you whatever I might know of them over the course of our time at sea. Guido, let us make a bargain. I will tell you all the news I have, and I will keep myself and others safe, if you promise me to do the same. I do not need justice, and if I ever do I shall ask for it, I promise, but I very much fear that there may come a time when I will need a friend, and given your profession, I am almost certain that I can say the same for you. Allow me to fill that office should you require such a thing, and let me trust that you will do the same for me.
Archie."
*
Letter from the Conte di Cesare, London, to Lt. Kennedy, HMS 'Renown'
7th August, 1799
"Archie,
It must be said that I find myself grateful, after reading your letter, that I was unable to make it to Portsmouth on the 6th. Hangovers have never been one of my favourite occupations, and it sounds as though your celebration may have induced one in me that would have become a second career."
He grinned a little, the unsympathetic flash of teeth that betrayed an inner humour not always to anyone else's taste. He had suffered from enough morning - and occasional day - afters to be well aware of how Kennedy must have been feeling when he wrote the letter. The added shakiness of an already terminally bad hand was further confirmation of the state the newly promoted lieutenant must have been in, had he needed any.
//Codemaster indeed. I read between the lines, I remember Horatio in that inn outside Toulouse, and I commend Archie on his silence with regard to how his immediate superior was feeling.//
Archie had been careful in his letter //too careful, damn him, that postscript worries me// and Guido was resolved to be the same, allowing the pace of friendship to dictate itself, rather than be forced by overly-considered replies. Fact and humour proved a fine framework to begin with, and he dipped his pen back in the ink, quick, impatient slashes of black slanting their way across the page in his wake.
"Life here progresses at its usual pace, that is to say frenetic and filled with paperwork. The position I now occupy has changed considerably since WD resigned, and my role is a far less active one than his ever was. This is partly due to a considerable increase in numbers at the office, and to a more formal acceptance of my position at the Admiralty. I must add that it is a role which I find surprisingly easy to play, and am surprised W himself never thought of expanding our practice before. Perhaps the paperwork would not have been to his taste, however. In truth, though, it suits my health, and I remain optimistic that the sedentary nature of my work may improve with time."
//Yes. I do remain optimistic. And I thank you for your trust in myself and Hal, and for your faith in me. Except I can't think of a way to write that without sounding like a maudlin fool. You will simply have to know that I am grateful. And I will have to accept that we are, both of us, taking much on trust and faith, and very little on a bedrock of knowledge. Dear God. I have taken smaller risks when I open my orders. And as for Hal...good Lord, preserve us. There is very little I can say that can remain within the bounds of common decency.//
He sighed, and sought for words that would convey the truth of the situation, of the amount Hal was drinking, of the dissolution of their friendship through his own difficulties in talking and Hal's evasion of any circumstance in which he might have to listen. They did not come to him easily, and the flow of words was broken by continued chewing of his quill as he tried to explain himself without betraying either Hal's, or his own, privacy.
"Hal continues to enjoy life in London to its fullest. Your recommendation as to the best playhouses has been noted, though his interest seems to lie more in the social life surrounding them than in the performances. He has, after much demonstration of an open purse and equally open morals, been accepted into two of the clubs here, where he is doing his best" - a furious chewing of the quill followed - "to become" - more chewing, until the feather began to disintegrate and it was a question of stop or choke - "a leader of fashionable taste and opinion."
//Which is one way of putting it. Fashionable taste and opinion, yes. Taste and opinion…hm. A matter for debate.//
"I have no doubt that he will succeed, although there are days when I could wish that perhaps you could have been a little less enthusiastic in your recommendations. Hal at three in the morning is doubtless amusing company to his immediate circle, but when I have to get up at six to begin making and receiving my reports, he can become a little irritating. I wish he would take a regular mistress and perhaps spend more full nights away, rather than feel it necessary to inform me in full detail of his pastimes at such an unsociable hour."
//Oh, and let's not forget the time I greeted him and his impromptu houseparty at 'an unsociable hour' in only a pair of breeches, carrying a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other, and giving to all and sundry a display of ribs, scars, and the revolting purple mess that used to be my side a few months ago, thus explaining to a good proportion of my social contemporaries *why* I'm so rarely seen in public these days.//
Guido shuddered, put the memory firmly to one side, to be returned to at a time when the sheer humiliation of that moment had faded into mild embarrassment, and began on a new topic.
"W informs me that he and Anne are expecting their first child. Benedick the married man indeed! He seems, no, /is/ happy, and I hope the peaceful state of affairs he is enjoying continues.
"As for me, I must return to the far less pleasant duty of preparing my first Commons report, which is to be presented in a week's time. I am aware that our Prime Minister's faith in me may be somewhat misplaced, especially considering the fact that I am reliant on Hal's continuing sobriety over the next week in order to have it finished. However, stranger things than coherency have been known from him, and I remain hopeful,"
//I remain hopeful. I remain hopeful. I remain optimistic. I remain. Oh dear God, Kennedy, pray for me this week as never before, because what I'm about to do could push Hal away for ever, and yet it's the last chance I have to make things right…I remain hopeful…//
"but in order to assure this novel state of affairs, I must confront that which I have now delayed too long - the grief and guilt which we both still bear, and yet never speak of. I fear it will require drastic measures, and I trust that you will think of me kindly in this matter, as I have great need of the well-wishing of others to face what I must do."
//Well. That's enough. Much more and I'm in danger of an overdose of honesty, too much sentimentality, and entering the realm of unwanted confidences. Time to finish this.//
"I have heard, as yet, no reports as to your ship's progress in the 'Gazette', but am, of course, expecting to hear great things in the future.
I remain, as ever,
Guido, Conte di Cesare."
//Oh, Lord, his postscript. That damned scribble he's probably regretting as we speak.//
Guido picked up his pen again, and wrote sharply, precisely, the words he would have said were the lieutenant standing in front of him, brief, to the point, and slightly awkward in their sincerity.
"P.S. Archie, for God's sake. What did you *think* I meant by friendship? Yes, you bloody fool. Yes. Just give me time to find the words. It is not only Hal I have to face. It is myself. But I will make your bargain gladly, and hope you do not find its quality too low.
G."
*
"You have to sober up." Guido was surprisingly calm about it, given his threats only hours before as to what would happen if Hal returned to the house in his usual state of happy inebriation.
A tousled head rolled from side to side on the floor, the only part of its owner not in a boneless state of wine-induced relaxation.
"/Yes/," Guido said firmly, and gripped Hal's hands, pulling him into a sitting position. Hal made a wordless sound of unhappy protest, and Guido sighed. "Hal, come on. I know you're not as drunk as you look."
"'M drunker."
"No, you /want/ to be drunker. More drunk - oh, God. Look, get to your feet, and let's go to the kitchen, all right?"
"More wine?"
"No. Not more wine. Coffee. Water. Over your head if you don't stop leaning on me like this."
"You'd pour coffee over my head?" Dark blue eyes widened with hurt surprise. "You'd do that to me?"
"Without a second thought," Guido agreed amiably. "Come on, you drunken louse. Kitchen."
"'M norra louse."
"Yes you are. You are a parasitical lifeform that deserves to be squashed."
"Thassa flea."
"Very well, you are a drunken flea. Stand up straight and /stop/ leaning on me."
"Can't."
"/Try/," said Guido dryly, and there was enough lack of amusement in his voice to send Hal lurching down the hallway under his own steam.
He sat down at the table with rather less than his usual grace, leaning his head into his hands, and waiting for the inevitable combination of coffee and kindly, distant disapproval that he was sure was about to arrive in front of him. If he and Guido had ever truly been friends, it was a friendship that had evidently been a good deal less stable than his fond imaginings had led him to believe, since there seemed to be no more than a rather distant affection on the spy commander's part, the sort he might give to any man he was forced to live with and trust with the reports - and now, Hal was sure, he had lost that as well. He pushed his face harder into his fingers, seeing bright colours swirl behind his eyes at the pressure, and fought the urge to beg and plead for a second chance.
And then he felt a hand on his shoulder, but it wasn't the kind, slight brush of a touch aimed at reassurance that Guido had occasionally been giving him until now. It was a firm grasp, clearly meant to get his attention.
"Look at me, Hal." It wasn't a request. It was very much an order, delivered in all the tones of absolute authority that lay behind the Conte's usual vaguely amused reserve.
Hal looked up slowly, widening his sleepy eyes to try and convey that Guido had his attention, not wanting to look as though he were not listening, that this new hardness in Guido had gone either unnoticed or uncared for.
"You are going to let me apologise now," Guido said, and his voice was determined, leaving no room for debate. "I am sorry, Hal. I am so very sorry for the last four years. I am sorry for all that you had to go through because of what I did - because of me. Because of what I made you promise."
"Guido, don't." Hal croaked. He wanted to drop his head back into his hands, cover his ears, pretend none of this was happening, or maybe just to get up and turn away, /walk/ away from what was coming, but Guido pulled his arms down again, and none too gently, at that.
"Listen to me." Guido's eyes were blazing at him across the table, gold-flecked with dangerous emotions, large, black pupils seeming to pierce straight into Hal's mind. "Listen to what I am saying, and stop evading this, as we have for too long now. I - am - sorry. I should have said it before, long before, and I am sorry for that too. Hal, I am beginning to suspect that you never had any idea I felt sorry for any of it, and I do not think you have any idea at all of how bloody sorry I am for /all/ of it."
"Please, Guido, I'm begging you, don't," Hal whispered, feeling icy trails of panic crawl out of his stomach and along his spine. If he listened to this - if he let Guido say this - he was doubly a traitor, firstly for not having believed in Guido and gone to him years ago, and secondly for letting Guido apologise, when it was he who should have been asking for forgiveness.
He could not tell Guido any of that, could not expose his own failings to that merciless steel trap of a mind, could not risk losing what little they still had, and so he moved, pushing the chair back and getting to his feet, hoping to move away from this infinitely dangerous moment and out into the corridor, back into his drunkenness, where he could pretend none of this had ever happened.. This time Guido seemed to have no intention of stopping him, and the long-fingered hand slipped off his shoulder as easily as though the strong grip had been no more than a frail and cobwebby illusion.
And then Guido punched him, not hard, but fast and deliberate, and right between his shoulder blades, so Hal stumbled over his already unsteady feet, trying as best he could to keep his wavering balance, and staggering towards the stove for support. Leaning against it in a combination of shock and a need for something solid to prop him up, he turned to look at Guido again.
"Do I have your attention?" Guido crossed his arms. "I hope so. Because I have had enough of this. Of the silence in this house between us. Of this stupidity. Of you."
Hal opened his mouth, but said nothing.
"I am so fed up with you not listening to a word I say, of not talking to me, of your idiotic escape into the wine bottle, that I could quite frankly scream," Guido continued, and Hal stared at him, unable to hide how baffled he was by Guido's sudden outburst. "But I won't do that, because it will serve for nothing, so we will do this another way. No more words, Trevelyan, because with you they mean less than the air I use up to say them, and I am not good at the saying, in any case. They say actions speak louder, and something needs to, so - hit me."
"What?" Hal closed his mouth hard after that one word, quite sure now that the four years of amnesia had just caught up with Guido and that he had finally lost his mind. If that was the case, it was surely better not to provoke him...
"You heard me. I know you heard me. Even if you are trying your best not to. You used to be able to knock me to the ground quite easily, I remember." Guido pointed at his own jaw as he offered it to Hal. "Well, go on. Since you cannot find any way of explaining things to me, I assume this way is easier, since you do not have to find a coherent thought in order to follow through with it."
"No, I can't," Hal objected faintly, but Guido merely shook his head, spreading his arms wide, eyebrows raised in slightly mocking disbelief.
"Hal, you truly cannot lie or dissemble, can you? I know you must have thought about coming after me during all those years. I'm very sure you must have wanted to hurt me a great deal in the past few months, for not telling you about what had caused my amnesia, for my going after Lorenzo for Archie's sake and not for yours, for my not caring enough to contact you, once I knew you were not dead, for /Francesca's/ death, for my not coming back for you both, for my inability to protect either of you -"
"No!" It was a shout in the suddenly too-still kitchen, and Hal looked at the floor, unable to bear that too-penetrating gaze any more. "No," he repeated, more calmly. "I've never thought about any of that." Despite his attempt at calmness, his voice was trembling badly, and he took an involuntary step closer to Guido as he spoke, who stood where he was, unflinching, arms still spread. A spark of anger ignited in Hal's stomach, burning its way up his chest, searing and scorching, like bile or acid, and he wondered wildly if he were going to be sick, spewing up all the emotions that roiled within him like undigested food.
"Oh please, Hal. I can see it all too clearly. You /want/ to hurt me. You have wanted to all this time. I didn't come for you. I didn't trust you. I didn't /care/ about you -"
"Will you shut up!" Hal snarled, but Guido went on, overriding him with words that cut to the bone.
"And are you actually surprised? My /God/ but Lorenzo made you into a pathetic excuse for a human being! Where's the man I knew, who rode with me and fought at my side in every tavern brawl we could get into? What did he do, Hal, offer you your heart's desire as long as you became a coward? Are you more like your father than I ever -"
Almost without realizing what he was doing, and /certainly/ with no prior clue that he was about to do it, Hal swung his arm back and punched Guido in the face, his fist colliding against the hard bone of Guido's jaw with a crack that sent horrible dull sparks of pain up Hal's arm, leaving it tingling numbly and hanging by his side with an unnatural heaviness, all the nerve- endings refusing to obey him in a fury of protest. As he stepped backwards, horrified and yet oddly triumphant at the same time, Guido lost his balance and fell to the floor with a dull, undignified thud. He sat there, making no attempt to get up, and looked up at Hal with a small, odd smile on his face, but Hal barely saw it, still consumed with the new rage that Guido's taunting had ignited in him, still filled with the need to say in /more/ than actions the things he had kept buried for so long.
"Don't you bloody understand?" he screamed, feeling something in his throat rasp and tear with the force of his voice, glaring down at Guido as he rubbed his unwieldy arm furiously, trying to get some feeling back into it so that he could repeat the gesture if he had to. "It isn't you who needs to apologise, it's me! I was the one who believed you didn't care, I was the one who let you go, I was the one who made /no/ attempt to help you, or rescue you, or...I let Lorenzo...I let Deveraux...I betrayed you, Guido, I..."
His voice finally abandoned him, leaving his mouth dry and his throat as rawly painful as though it were inflamed, and all he could do was to stare down at Guido, shaking uncontrollably, blood and adrenaline pounding through him in a dizzying mixture that rocked him where he stood, still cradling his arm, his eyes blurring with panic and unhappiness.
"Finished? Good." Guido pushed himself upright, and got to his feet, straightening his shoulders, and gave his jaw a brief rub that evidently did nothing for the pain, judging from the way his eyes narrowed to glittering slits, and his lips parted to release a long, hissing breath. "Now," he said, regaining his composure, "it's my turn."
Hal should have been expecting what happened next, but oddly enough, he was so stunned by his own actions that he did not. Guido's fist hit his cheekbone in what literally looked and felt like a shower of sparks that danced their way across his vision, making his eyes water painfully. He stumbled backward but managed to stay upright by virtue of the stove, and he wondered rather wildly if Guido was still too weak to hit him properly, or if he had held back on purpose out of fear of what he might actually do if he let go.
"/That/ is for the bloody stupidity you showed in believing that /any/ of what I said to you could possibly have been true just now." Guido stepped closer, his expression mild now, and he put his hand back on Hal's shoulder and pulled him close. Still dazed, both from what he had done, and what Guido had just said, it took Hal a long moment to realize that Guido was embracing him, as he had in the inn at Toulouse, the automatic gesture of comfort that was so purely a part of the di Cesares that Hal had almost taken it for granted, had forgotten how much he had missed that confident strength of emotion that they had all been able to display so freely, had forgotten to the extent that it had not even occurred to him why those fleeting touches on the shoulder had seemed so alien.
He suddenly realised, with a small physical shock that hit somewhere below his breastbone, that there was no-one, now, to offer that to Guido, his older brothers all dead and buried, and Angelo the only other left, a younger brother from whom it would not be seemly to ask for, or accept, the offer of another's strength in a moment of pain.
"This, by the way, is me apologising for ever having forgotten our friendship so much as to believe I could hurt you in any way, be I mad or sane," Guido whispered, his voice real, and deeply unhappy, and more like himself than he had sounded in all the long months of his recovery. Hal lifted his arms, the still-heavy one that had knocked his friend to the floor, and the good one, which seemed so much lighter, and clutched at the back of Guido's shirt with his hands, finally able to acknowledge what Guido had been trying to offer him from the start, this unconditional acceptance that they had changed, that things could never be the same, but that they had survived, and that so could their friendship, if they let it. "I /am/ sorry, Hal, but not how you think. I am just so sorry that this -- /any/ of this - had to happen to us."
There was a moment of silence, in which Hal wondered if perhaps he was just too worn out by the events of the evening to speak, and then, with an effort that felt as great as uprooting a tree, he managed to reply, "So am I, Guid'. Oh, God, so am I!"
He dropped his head onto Guido's shoulder, trying to disguise the fact that alcohol, exhaustion, and pure unadulterated relief were making his eyes sting rather alarmingly, and mumbled,
"You don' smell of tobacco n'horses any more. 'S wrong."
"That is because, my over-protective friend, you will not let me go near the horses, and I cannot smoke in the house," Guido responded, his deep voice sounding as though he were smiling. Hal found that he was clinging to that quiet amusement as tightly as he was to the back of Guido's shirt, but couldn't think of anything to say that might provoke the naturally silent man back into speech. As though Guido had sensed his need, though, he kept talking, his thin arms a haven of uncomplicated affection as he spoke of horses and the gardens, of how they needed a better cook than the one Pitt had found for them if Hal was going to insist on bringing people back to the house, of how perhaps a valet might be a good plan, of the new fashion that had started of carpeting stairs, and he said nothing at all about the fact that what had begun as a mere warning prickle at the back of Hal's eyes had turned into silent tears that were soaking into his shirt. He simply brought one hand up to cup the back of his friend's bright head, continued with his soothing litany of nonsense, and Hal never knew that he was thanking God that his desperate gamble, based on over twelve years of rather sketchy memories, had paid off. Perhaps fortunately for his peace of mind, he was also never to know how horribly at odds the calm voice was with Guido's grim expression, as he stared into space, and silently called down curses on the heads of everyone, up to and including himself, who had hurt Hal Trevelyan over the last few years.
The grip on his shirt loosened finally, and Guido swallowed dryly, feeling the rasp in his throat as he finally stopped talking, slackening his arms to give Hal the option of withdrawal, now that he had obviously found some kind of precarious equilibrium.
/If he apologises for this, I swear I'll punch him again,/ he thought wearily as Hal lifted his head up, dark blue eyes looking into his rather unfocusedly, one cheekbone already darkened and swelling.
Hal looked as though he were about to say quite a lot of things, and was sifting them through to decide where to start, but instead he only reached up, and touched Guido's jaw gently, ignoring the involuntary flinch back that the Italian made.
"Least I didn't break it," he said with a small, rueful smile, and Guido's mouth twisted in response.
"I was feeling noble," he explained, his voice croaking with dryness.
"Ah." Hal's hands were on his shoulders now, soothing away tension in small circles. "Yes, that's a bad habit of yours. We'll have to work on that. It leads to you not talking about things, and not telling me things, and really, it's not very good."
Guido smiled lopsidedly. "I will talk," he agreed. "If you will? A bargain?"
Hal looked at him quizzically. "A bargain?"
"Yes. According to a certain lieutenant, they are good things to have. Among friends."
"Aha. Is this the latest Kennedy philosophy?"
"I believe it may rival that of Hume," Guido agreed with the utmost gravity, trying not to smile, and Hal snorted with laughter.
"Christ, Guid', I'll take Archie over Hume any day. He makes sense."
"So." Guido tried to keep the hopefulness out of his voice, "We will talk?"
Hal reached up, and tugged at the long hair at the nape of Guido's neck, caught back in a rough tie.
"Of course we'll talk, you daft bastard," he said reassuringly. "We've got the rest of our lives. Remember what you said to me, that first day we met? 'You're my friend,' you said to me, 'not some imaginary companion I made up for my own amusement'. Well that goes doubled. You're my friend. I'm not leaving, I chose to come here, I want to help Pitt and I want to help you." He emphasised each point with a tug on the long tail of hair, frowning a little. "You thought I would leave, didn't you?" he demanded suddenly. "Jesus, Guid', you actually thought I'd knock you out and leave! Christ God, what have you been thinking, you stupid bugger? Is this because I've been drinking? 'S how I mourn, remember? It used to be how you -" He broke off, remembering the brandy, and growled softly, fingers knotting painfully into the roots of Guido's hair. "Are you telling me that you've been doing your mourning for Enzo and Francesca alone?" he demanded. "You stupid, stupid, noble, pigheaded, stubborn -" He stopped short again, forcing Guido's head down until the thin face rested in the crook of his neck. "When did the shoulder stop being two ways, hmmm? Oh Guido, you idiot! You blind idiot! I've mourned her, and I've missed her, and I've grieved my bloody heart out for her, but these last months? I've been mourning for you!"
Guido shook his head violently, but made no attempt to move away.
"/Yes/," said Hal firmly, and moved his hands back to the too-thin shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles on the taut layer of muscle that still remained. "/You/. You lost everything. Why shouldn't I grieve for you?"
Guido raised his head, dark eyes too bright and glittering in the candlelight, his mouth contorted.
"No," he said with difficulty, his throat contracted to a pinprick. "No. Did not lose everything -"
He stopped, swallowing hard, but Hal's hands steadied him, still moving in those small circles that were the only constant thing in the unnerving fear that possessed him utterly now.
"I didn't lose everything," he repeated in a whisper. "But when Enzo held that knife to your throat - I thought I was going to. I thought I could bear anything. I did not think there was anything more I cared about that I /could/ lose. Except - you lived. He didn't kill you. I could still lose you, I /can/ still lose you. And I want you to go, Hal, because I am afraid, all the time, that this will happen. You are mortal, you could die, what I am makes you -"
"You won't lose me."
"Hal, you are a target now, they could take you tomorrow, and I -"
"You won't lose me," Hal repeated firmly, and now that he understood why Guido had been holding him at a distance, he realised that he was prepared to forgive anything, even the coldness of the last few months. "I promise. 'M not going anywhere. Not going to die on you. You are /not/ going to lose me, got that into your thick Italian skull?"
"You cannot promise -"
"Can too. See? This is me. Promising. So listen, learn, and accept."
"How can I -"
"'Cos I love you," said Hal simply. "An' they can't stop that with a gun or a knife or a barrel of bloody gunpowder. You're my friend, and I love you, and there's bugger all they can do about it. 'Member what we said back in Italy? I wished I had brothers, an' you said we had better than that. Better than brothers, you an' me, you said, 'cos we got to choose. Well, I still choose. And I promise. I. Am. Not going. Anywhere. Ever again. Without you."
Guido gave up, realising that he had to accept Hal's words, because if he did not, he would be denying the truth in them, would be denying what he, too, felt and wanted to say.
"I'm no Peter, don't need a cockerel for denial," he whispered, and mumbled quickly, keeping his face averted, "Same here, you know? Not leaving you. Not again. Not for anything. Even if I get sent somewhere, it's not leaving. Please believe that. Oh, God, this is hopeless! I care too much to be rational. But you must trust that I will always come back."
"I know," said Hal soothingly, rubbing the final knots of tension out of the stiff neck. "I've always known that. You keep your promises, Guid'. You promised to come back from the grave, if I needed you, an' you did. You keep your promises."
It was his turn to babble a strange, jumbled litany of comfort now, as Guido, without sound or tears, shook uncontrollably under the persistent motion of Hal's hands, hiding his face in the crook of Hal's neck as he began to whisper a repetition of apologies, not to Hal, but to the ghosts of his beloved dead, the ghosts he had once told Archie Kennedy he wanted there, with him, and was now prepared to relinquish for the living reality of Hal Trevelyan. And each time he pleaded for forgiveness, Hal gave it to him, knowing now that it was the words that were important, not who said them, knowing as well as he knew the man shaking in the half-lit kitchen that Guido was relinquishing his invisible demons in the only way he knew how, and helping him to let them go, the love and pain and grief together as the ex-assassin finally gave in to his memories, and let in the overwhelming reality of the present. Hal heard himself from far away, murmuring words of comfort as the clenched fists slowly opened, and relaxed, and moved upwards to cover Hal's in a gesture of acceptance.
And just as Guido had thanked God for a lucky gamble, Hal thanked the fourth lieutenant of the 'Renown' with the same silent fervency, thinking that whatever Archie had written, whatever the latest 'Kennedy philosophy' might have been, it had saved both of them from despair.
*