Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warnings:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Collections:
852 Prospect Archive
Stats:
Published:
1999-05-22
Completed:
1999-05-22
Words:
47,375
Chapters:
3/3
Comments:
2
Kudos:
20
Bookmarks:
2
Hits:
738

Nom De Guerre

Summary:

During the Second World War, OSS Officer James Ellison is airdropped to meet with French Resistance Fighters.

Chapter Text

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

Nom De Guerre

By Taleya

Author's homepage: http://www.fortunecity.com/lavendar/brett/283/index.html

During the Second World War, OSS officer James Ellison is airdropped to make contact with a group of Maquis fighters in occupied France.

WARNINGS: This is not a nice story. It contains the death of canonical characters. It contains torture, rape, and the indomitable power of love and simple humanity. Occupied France during World War Two was not a nice place. Forget Hogan's Heroes, forget Dad's Army and ignore 'Allo 'Allo. They are all bullshit. The real world during those times was full of death and suffering and the greatest evil ever produced by mankind. It was also the place of unbelievable acts of courage and humanity. Although I took liberty with the characters, the places in this story actually happened. In Vercors, 21 July 1944, 500 Maquis were massacred when a German plane took the place of expected Allied supplies. Between that day and the 31 of July, the SS systematically burned and murdered everything in the area, resistance and civilian. And yet, you never find it listed in a book of war.

Dedicated to the men and women of the French resistance, from those who actively participated in the FFI, to the families that took in Jewish children and adopted them as their own. Their story goes largely unsung, but they still remain heroes of the war.


Nom De Guerre - part one
By Taleya

It started with a death.

One death he might have been able to handle, mourn his loss, go on, perhaps grow stronger. But then there was another, and another, and another, each time his soul shrivelling a little more as he outlasted friend after friend.

Flight Melancholy, they called it. He'd seen it happen before, watched the fresh-faced young men, straight from the academy warping, as if under some evil spell, watched as they quickly became disillusioned and weathered, slowly turning cold inside until there was nothing left, just an outer shell, warm, perhaps even capable of loving, but when you looked into their eyes you saw the souls of the damned screeching from the inky depths.

Ellison himself had fought against the coldness, terrified of the darkness, desperately wrapping his heart around a precious center, keeping it warm, keeping it alive, keeping himself alive, until one death too many pushed him over and opened him to the void.

Jack Pendergast, an old friend, the man who'd seen him through his flight training, recommended him for OSS. The man who had damn well been a better father figure to him than William Ellison ever was.

Dead.

Roasted in a crippled plane he'd tried to ride down, one wing sheared off, the engine faulty and coughing, sputtering and choking, the hatch jammed, trapping him inside as the flames licked the control panel, tasted his flesh.

And Leftenant James Ellison had seen every second of it, almost as if he was wearing binoculars. He had seen the craggy face twist as Jack swore, seen one gloved hand beat at the flames while the other fought to control the bucking craft.

Seen the look of final resignation that had crossed Jack's face approximately two seconds before the plane slammed into the tarmac and exploded.

And then Jim had walked away, back to his cold, lonely single quarters, where he found a plain brown telegram message waiting for him.

Danny was dead too. Killed by a radical group who didn't like his ancestry in the current climate.

Jim dully re-read the printed words, then let the paper drop to the floor as he stared mindlessly at his wrinkled old picture of Lana Turner on the wall. Death on death, the two men he considered family - hard won positions in the heart of the lone wolf - gone.

Jim walked out of the compound, rules, regulations be damned, wandering shocked and dazed through streets, feet taking him nowhere and everywhere, eventually ending up outside the door of a little flat in Portobello road, above the shops, his soul needing the desperate reaffirmation of life his wife could give him in a single, sacred act.

And then he pushed the door open, and the last struggling flame of his spirit died, swamped out by an ocean of betrayal.

Caroline, his wife. She'd come with him to England, promising eternal faithfulness, and now he'd found her sprawled on her back, the sheets on their marital bed bunched in her claw-like hands as she spread her legs for some blond young fly-boy.

"Carol?" That wasn't his voice, so strangled and weak-sounding. Not the voice of Leftenant Ellison, trained fighter, veteran fly boy, decorated soldier and new OSS operative. It wasn't.

"Jimmy!!" Caroline didn't even attempt to excuse herself, too far gone in a drunken state to do more than giggle. The fly-boy jumped to his feet on seeing Ellison's rank, standing at attention, shirt rucked up around his chest, pants around his ankles, erection still standing proud and full like some sort of obscure flagpole.

Jim walked out. Turned his back. Left his wife to her to her fun, left her to their home, left her to anything she damn well pleased, purposeful now, heading back to the base and signing up for the first available mission to certain death, the death of his physical body only, because his soul had withered and died in the face of those three betrayals. He trained mindlessly, learning by rote the moves, perfecting that which was already deeply ingrained, every waking moment occupied, keeping him busy, keeping his mind away from the truth.

On his last night, he picked up some worn out cockney tart. Groping blindly in the blackout shelter, pushing her tattered, stockinged legs apart, grunting, sweating, fucking like a rooting animal.

And then when it was over, he dropped his money on the bed and walked away, colder inside than he had ever felt before.

Christ, let me die.


The engines of the Fortress vibrated through him, sending each nerve shivering, until he wasn't sure if he was shaking from the anticipation of the coming mission, or just because of the plane.

No map. No gun. Civilian clothes. This wasn't a game. If he was caught, he die. Most probably very badly, screaming his lungs out as the nazi's methodically tore him apart to get at the secrets in his brain. The names of the group he was meeting. Three names only, all they ever knew, so that three people were all that were killed if they were caught. And they would be killed. Quickly, in a hail of bullets escaping the patrols if they were lucky. Slowly and agonisingly in a mass of electrodes and beatings and parades for the Fatherland if they weren't.

"Approaching drop site." The warning from the rear gunner, relayed through the headset jerked him out of his reverie. Jim rose on shaky legs, staggering against the buffering of the plane as he slid open the door. A one-second warning, then he was pushing himself out, hands gripping the edges of the doorframe and thrusting, pumping, until there was nothing but the empty air beneath him.

He heard and felt the movements behind him as the other two followed. Serris and Keating. SOE and FFI respectively, he'd barely known the men a few scant days in training. Enough to see their faces, know their quirks, enough to trust them with his paltry life - if he even held such a thing in value any more.

The rushing of air filled his ears, followed by the sensation of weightlessness. Looking down at the dark countryside below him, Ellison counted the seconds off. Five, ten...pull the cord.

The sudden shift as the parachute unfolded, jerking him to one side saved his life.

Below them, the suddenly quiet countryside came to life, the flare from burpguns sparking between trees as a deadly hail sprayed the sky. He felt the metal whisper close to his cheek, burring through his hair and let himself go limp, ignoring the dark blots of his own blood trailing past half open lids, ignoring the activity below, every iota of his being concentrating on his own death. A corpse, swaying in the breeze, unnoticed, uncontrolled as he smashed into the ground, rolling, jerking, landing hard enough to break bones if he wasn't careful, then lying there, listening to the shouted commands and short burst from the guns as his men died. Wanting, desperately needing to get to his feet and spread his arms wide, scream at the murdering bastards that here he was, come and kill me, please, but his training overriding even that fierce desire, forcing him to shimmy out of his harness, creep his way to the cover of bushes and wait until the inevitable patrol came to confirm his bloody corpse.

The first one was killed by a quick twist of his neck, the twig-like crack oddly fitting in the wood surroundings. Then Ellison took the man's gleaming, proudly polished dress dagger and used it to slice the throat of his superior officer. Another, then another, he flitted like a silent ghost through the woods, taking them out one by one, sometimes letting them see him, just for a brief second, hoping that maybe the next one would be the one to grant him the oblivion he sought.

But none of them did. Death does not come easily to those who covet her dark embrace.

Covered in blood, a lone, ravenous, dangerous dead creature, Ellison took the knife and headed to meet his contacts.

Before he had made more than five steps, he heard the stealthy tread of footsteps through the woods, dry leaves and old, splintered twigs crackling ever-so-quietly in their wake. Tracking a parallel course, he trailed the wraith for a few minutes, finally circling around to a position behind as it stopped to nudge at the body of the Unterscharfuhrer Ellison had killed with a dirty boot. The corpse rolled silently, head jiggling at an odd angle, then flopped back with the peculiar sound of dead meat.

With an uncaring snort, the figure moved on, to where the bodies of the parachute team were sprawled, bodies contorted in a stark reminder of the punishing hail of bullets that had riddled their bodies.

"Merde!" Jim jerked back at the sound of the other man's voice, dark and rich in timbre. He saw the man squat, pressing a hand to the necks of the two men in a futile gesture, then he straightened again, shoulders heavy, gun dangling carelessly in a defeated pose.

And then Jim made his move.

In three quick strides he was behind the stealthy figure, knife drawn and at the other man's throat. But his hand stayed before it made the final stream of blood stain the ground as he took in his captive. Took in the decidedly non-German cheapshit dimestore Sten in his hands. Took in the raggedness of the man's clothes. But most importantly took in the colour of his skin. It would be a cold day in hell before Hitler started allowing black men into his beloved Wehrmacht.

"Who are you?" he whispered into the nearest ear.

No reply, although he could feel the man's pulse thudding wildly through the veins in his neck, almost hear the frantic beat. Risking movement, Jim took the man's gun in his hands, shifting back and away before circling to meet his face.

The big man's dark eyes took in every movement, eyes scanning and cataloguing him, although his lips remained silent. Jim risked the first contact. "Adric."

The man's eyes widened and he finally spoke, his rich voice supplying the corresponding code-word. "Nyssa. "

With a short nod, Jim handed the man back his Sten. "The others are dead. " He stated the fact coldly, ignoring the faint stab of pain he felt at the words, the mourning of too many deaths, two more added to the hellish roll-call. Keating, a hoary old bastard with a penchant for cracking obscene French jokes at inappropriate times, and Serris...Christ, just the other day he was showing Jim the latest pictures of his baby girl Veronica...

"The rest of the patrol?" the other man's voice broke through to him.

"Dead. All of them. " No pride, just a cold statement of fact. His men died. The Germans were in his way. He killed them. End of story.

The man nodded, then scurried over, rifling through the dead's packs for food and medicines, ammunitions, and Jim cursed for not doing it himself. Ammunitions rarely lasted long in the resistance, even on the rare occasions when the dropoffs from the Allies were in the right place. Food was scavenged from wherever it could be found, same for medical supplies. He had to stop expecting new supplies from the quartermaster, courtesy of Uncle Sam. He was in a war zone now, and what he lived on was what he could get his hands on, nothing more.

Between the two of them, Jim and the other man - who's name he learned was Joel Taggert - had the bodies stripped of all useful supplies in less than an hour, bedecked with guns, packs stuffed with blankets, food, canteens, medical supplies and munitions. Stuffing a Luger in the waistband of his pants, Ellison followed the larger man as he slipped through the woods, creeping over roads and into the hills.

At a certain point, Joel stopped.  Jim looked around. He could see nothing, hear nothing but the quiet of the night surrounding them.

Then Joel whistled and there were people.

They appeared around him like ghosts.  Not surprising really, the very nature of their existence was to fight from the inside, erode the jackboot of occupied control. Men and women filtered out from the trees at Joel's soft call, of all ages and races. From a big burly black Captain close to forty, to a slender dark haired white girl.

Ellison took in the smallest man, the youngest of them all. Not physically - the growth of beard on his face was more than enough evidence of his manhood - but mentally, spiritually. Something about the way he moved, a certain look in his face spoke of an innocence taken, but not entirely lost. Jim felt that he could stand there forever, watching the casual grace of the young man as he shifted through the mass of people. He'd never been one for the opposite sex, but something about the kid would have tempted an angel. Soft brown hair, long and unkempt after too long fighting hidden battles, powdered with dirt and dust, mortar from destroyed buildings. The oversized shirt, looking like it had been stolen from a dead nazi, stuffed into pants cut too long and hacked off with a dull knife.

The simple leather band on one wrist caught his eye and he followed it, eyes tracking the movement as the attached hand pushed back a heavy mop of hair. For one moment, he was caught on the jagged scar marring the beauty on one side, then his eyes were torn away by their own volition, hungry for more, skittering up and around to lock with the other man's incredible blue eyes.

A wealth of wisdom resided in those sombre depths, the portals to the soul. Sorrow too, and an unendurable weariness, tired of killing, tired of death, a spirit longing for peace and love, and an ending to all the madness going on around them.

Jim reached out and ran a hand down the side of the other man's face, reaching out as if to brush some dirt aside, hand movement changing mid-air, cupping the strong jaw in his hand, brushing the tips of his fingers across the softly bristled cheek. The young man leaned into the caress, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from the dark-haired woman behind him, turning his head to brush the full lips against Ellison's palm.

And it happened. A thrill, a tingle, completion, coming together, like the final lost piece of the jigsaw puzzle slotting into place, each knew they had suddenly found the other half.

But, like the fool Caroline had always claimed he was, Jim let his hand fall away from the soft skin and stepped back, passing the moment by, trying not to notice the sudden flash of - of what? Longing? Desire? Disappointment? Sorrow? - that crossed the smaller man's face.

Someone slapped Jim heartily on the back and he stumbled a little, gritting his teeth at the coarse laughter at his expense. He resisted the urge to pound the slapper into the dirt.  James Ellison was no man's fool.

Remembering his briefing, he forced himself to unwind a little.  These were people living on the edge, sometimes past it.  They had a hard life, and they relished the few moments of living they did have.  It was of no use holding a grudge against someone who might save your life the next minute, then be dead tomorrow.

He talked to each one, got to know their assumed identities, never the real ones, each face and name revealing a group of men and women intricately bound by fate into a single, solid unit.

The leader, Simon Banks, a big black man who moved like a dancer, a scholar in a previous life, a man of peace who had swapped his books for guns and bombs in the name of freedom.

Brian Rafe, SOE, sent behind the lines like Jim to meet up with the resistance, wreak sabotage and generally hinder the enemy wherever he could. Jim shook his hand firmly, one professional to another, equal ranks, equal purposes. Different countries, but working for the same purpose to protect the Allied Nations. Rafe's soft accent smacked of somewhere other than England, and it took Jim a while to place the South African tones. He wondered at the insanity of the war, that had this man in France, instead of fighting Rommel in the African campaign.

Megan Conner, an Australian nurse stationed in France, who decided to risk her life in the fight against the travesty staining Europe rather than return to her safe, peaceful home. Jim found her one of the more intriguing of the group, her hair tossed carelessly over her shoulder as she grinned broadly and jammed out a bruised hand for him to shake. A real woman, unlike the prissy facades all too common at home or England, her down to earth honesty was a welcome respite.

Henri Brown, musician in a jazz group, another who decided to stay and fight, rather than turn tail and run. Ironically becoming the only survivor, as the rest of his band were killed when their plane was shot down attempting to escape Vichy airspace.

Sam Keely, a woman who had fought through the death camps and massacres, clawed her way from one place to another, until there was nothing left but the desire to kill and kill until she was dead. A dangerous woman, Jim noted, one of the kind that could - and would - do anything. Because she had nothing left to lose. A lot like himself, in many respects. His eyes narrowed as he took in the possessive grip she had on the young man's - Blair's - arm, gun at the ready as if to face down any challenges to her property. Blair seemed to suffer through it out of weariness rather than any real sexual motivation.

And then Blair Sandburg himself.

Another escapee from the camps, he had trekked his way to where he had heard there were pockets of free people fighting back. That was all he said, but something in his eyes, in the eyes of the others, told Jim that there had to be more.

But he didn't get the chance to ask, as Joel dragged him around the camp, introducing him, making sure that everyone knew his face and name. For otherwise, to be an unknown person in a resistance camp, it would mean death. They couldn't afford anything otherwise. Serena Chang was in charge of the meal. A Gypsy who escaped the rounding up of her people, she had fought longer than all of them. Serena had been hiding in the mountains, terrified of capture while many of the others were still able to sleep in a warm bed and eat a full meal. Yet somehow in the face of all this she had retained her spirit, offering him a hot meal from the pot of scavenged goods, a place by the fire, fussing and clucking over him like an elderly grandmother instead of a hardened fighter.

An arm slammed in front of Jim before he could take the offered plate, dirt scrawled up over firm muscles like fine calligraphy. He followed the arm up to the flat brown eyes of the woman, Sam. "Why should we feed him?" she asked the group as a whole, jerking her head towards Ellison in a curt movement. "What proof do we have he's not a spy for the boch?"

Joel grinned easily, teeth flashing white against the growing shadows as he reached around the irate woman and snagged a plate of his own. "Six dead Germans in the forest by the drop site," he shrugged. "One man with a bloody knife. Proof for me." There were murmurs of assent, and Sam backed down, but the lingering look she gave the Leftenant as she returned to her haunt by Sandburg promised a later continuation.

Jim took a seat by the fire and took the offered food, a little amazed by how easily the others accepted him. He'd heard about it, but never experienced it. The Maquis took people in, made hard friendships, loved hard, and cried hard when fleeting acquaintances died. Then they started all over again.

As if by some unknown call, they all started to take seats around the fire, sitting on the soft moss or half-rotted tree trunks as they scooped up the thick soup and listened to his plans, the information he had risked his life for, the planned drops of weapons, key objectives, targets to aim for. He drew his maps in the dirt, discussing strategies, numbers, all the time, unable to take his eyes off the slight, long haired youth on the other side of the campfire, watching the luminous blue eyes above the hideous scar tracking his every move.

Banks finally told Jim Blair's full story that night, when all the others were asleep and only they two were still awake, keeping watch. The flickering shadows from the fire licked exotic patterns over his ebony skin as in a strange, disconnected voice - the only way one could tell such horrors and even hope to keep their sanity - he had told the story of a desperate young man taking the only avenue he could. Watching his family murdered around him, until only his mother survived, frail and sickly in one of the cattle cars.

Jim had listened, and felt like weeping for the first time since his soul died, feeling something new and tender grow to take it's place as he heard of the beautiful young man whoring himself, selling his body to the highest nazi bidder, using the position to protect what was left of his family, only to have even that small hope crumple into ashes as his mother sickened and died anyway.

Blair shifted uneasily in his sleep, and Simon eased the curly head into his lap, long fingers stroking soothing patterns along the fine cheekbones until he slipped into an easier sleep. The gesture of affection, such tenderness from such a large man should have stunned Ellison, but it didn't, the tableau touching him somewhere he never knew existed. The thought that this was what the nazis wanted to destroy, to burn, torture, maim and kill sent a cold anger through his soul and he clenched a rock in his hand, the exterior pain a sharp relief from the turmoil within as Simon continued the story.

Trapped, alone, Blair's own purpose for his position was spent, but the General was reluctant to part with his toy. The rapes, the 'sharing' the high ranking officer did with his honoured guests. And yet something within Blair had refused to die. He had plotted and planned, favourite pet of the General, waiting until the time was right, then had taken a knife, scarring his own face, marring his beauty, making himself unacceptable and useless in the all-judging eyes of his 'master. '

And so it was back to the cattle cars, back to the endless waiting, back to the sickness and starvation, but this time he went with an anger, a fire that he was determined to use to burn every nazi he could, to fight, claw, bite, scream, wreak his revenge on the people determined to wipe out his race.

Hiding his scar in the shadows of the car, the moon lighting the perfection of his face, that soft, deep, impassioned voice, honed after too long serving a German master encouraging the sole SS soldier without, bored and waiting with an eye for some action, to come inside, where he was immediately set upon by broken, desperate, needy victims determined to have this last shred of freedom offered.

Five thousand people deemed 'undesirable' escaped into a night sky thick with bullets from the waiting Germans.

Some of them even made it out alive.

Among the living were Sam, Simon and Blair.


The next day, Jim sought the smaller man out, finding him seated under a tree, pieces of a Sten scattered around him as he slowly cleaned out the chamber with a rag, an undefinably sad look on his face, as though performing a vile, but necessary duty.

Ellison took in the battered metal stock of the gun and the worn grip. The weapon had seen a lot of action. "Sandburg?"

He looked up, brushing an errant lock of hair out of his eyes. Some how those few thick strands had escaped the roughly knotted strip of cloth that served as a hairtie, and danced merrily around the elfin face in a slight breeze. Jim wanted to reach out and touch that coil, to see if it felt as soft as it looked, but took a seat instead, shifting a little as a stone dug into his thigh. "You're good at that," he indicated the weapon the other man was re-assembling as they spoke.

"I wish I wasn't." Blair slotted the loading spring back into the barrel and tested the recoil before screwing the entire assembly back into the end of the stock. His pained, barely whispered words cut the conversation to an abrupt end.

Jim tried again. "So where's the better half?" Blair blinked at him. "You know, the old ball and chain? Your wife?" He was getting nowhere, and the other man looked more and more bewildered, so he switched languages. "Ta femme?"

Blair shook his head, confused. "Sorry?" Realisation dawned and his eyes opened wide. "Oh. Sam?? You think Sam is -" he shook his head, chuckling as he attached the wide strip of the sten shoulder holster to the weapon by two battered clips. "No, no. Sam is not my wife. She's..a friend. A good friend, we studied together. Before the war." He tested the loading spring on his sten again, and the firing trigger before slotting a magazine into the sub-machine gun and slinging it over his shoulder. "We should get back," he flowed gracefully to his feet and extended a hand to where Ellison was still seated on the ground. "We'll be leaving for Grenoble soon, and then onto Vassieux."

Jim looked at the slender hand extended to him, dark with grease and dirt. Hard and callused, nothing like the soft smooth hands that his wife had...

Jim grabbed hold of the hand and scrambled to his feet. He looked down for a moment, into the smaller man's eyes, the emotions written so plainly there for all the world to see. Windows into the soul - truly for this man. This man that drew him in when he was alone, offering friendship. Or was it something else?

With a start, Jim realised he was still holding the Maquisard's hand. Blair followed his gaze, and a little smile frittered at the edges of his mouth. Unhurriedly he reclaimed his hand, then the two men set off back to the camp in companionable silence, back to where the others were already preparing to leave.


The journey to Grenoble went suspiciously without incident. Jim's instincts screamed against it as his body fell into the familiar rote of left, right, left, right, and he strained his hearing, sure that somewhere over the babble of soft talk and scuffling feet he would hear the ominous clank and roar of a tank.

Blair walked beside him, his wiry body easily keeping pace through the sloping paths, occasionally grounding Ellison by an off-hand remark, or a casual brush of his hand, brought together when the motions of their walking bodies intersected at the right time. Caught up in their own little worlds, neither of the men noticed Serena and Megan walking behind them, broad grins and whispered conversations travelling between the two women.

"So you're from America?" Jim had to congratulate the younger man on his English. A faint trace of his native French accent coloured the words, but it was English, real English, the kind with contractions and turns, not the cultured exact pronunciation of someone who had learned it in college.

"Yeah. Ever been to the States?"

"Me? No." Blair idly kicked a stray pebble. "I have been to England though. Before the war, we used to go across the channel to see the London Zoo. I was only small, though. I'd like to go again, maybe. After the war."

After the war. It was a catchcry of hope. Everyone had something they wanted to do after the war. Go home, go somewhere else, do something, anything, as long as it was away from where they were at the moment. A lot of the young men at the airfield used to tuck little pictures into their flight jackets, kissing their loved ones, dream of the girl they were going to marry, 'after the war'. Then they would go out and kill other people, and if they returned, take their little pictures out and dream again.

"There isn't much left of London," The words slipped out of his mouth, far more bitter than he had expected them to be. It was true. The blitz had left a ruin of buildings, and yet there was still that little cry of hope. Things'll be better, we'll get it all back. Just you wait and see. After the war.

Ellison wondered what was left for him, after the war.

Then he remembered.

"So what about you?"

Blair blinked up at him, a grin playing on the sides of his mouth. "Je suis Francais," he said patiently, eyes wide with innocence.

Despite himself, Jim felt an answering grin creep across his own face, washing the dark reflection away a little. "I know that. Where?"

"LaBarre." Blair booted another pebble. "My father was killed in the Great war. Fighting Germans." He shrugged a little. "I guess I follow in his footsteps, oui?"

Jim looked sadly at the raggedy little figure. "Yeah."

The rest of the journey continued in silence.


"Ellison!" Simon's voice carried easily over the babble of excited voices as they reached Grenoble.

Jim jogged up to the burly Captain. "Sir?"

Banks shot him a dirty look. "Stop with the 'sir'. I want you to go over to the dump. Find yourself a sidearm. Exchange that piece of German merde for a decent weapon." He jerked his head at the gun stuffed in the waistband of Jim's pants. "I want you armed. Especially around Blair."

"Si-what?"

"You heard. Blair won't carry a sidearm. Half the time he won't carry his Sten. If you two are going to be joined at the hip, I want you to watch out."

Jim shook his head. "Joined at the -?"

Simon uttered a frustrated little growl. "Just get the damned gun." He watched the Leftenant trot off and grinned. Green as grass. It didn't matter. Pretty soon he'd be mooching and swearing with the rest of them. No one gave a shit about decorum in the Maquis - at least, not for very long.

He felt Megan and Serena grinning behind him and turned. "What?"

"You see it too, huh?" Megan asked rhetorically. "I think he'd be good for Sandy."

"He isn't going to be anything as long as he's wound that tight." Simon's expression softened. "You two go find.. 'something to do.'" he said meaningfully, making flapping motions with his hands. "Shoo!"

Serena muffed a salute at him. "Yes, SIR!"


Jim exchanged his stolen Luger for a smoother, more streamlined Berretta, a relic from the member of another parachute team that hadn't been so lucky as him. He weighed the gun in his hand, checking it had a full clip and a clear chamber before taking it with him. Idly he wondered who it had belonged to. A trained soldier, the army his only life? Or some other man, drawn by the clarion call to fight against the evil trying to take over his world. It didn't matter anymore, he was dead and the gun now belonged to James Ellison.

He just hoped he had better luck than its last owner.


"Blair, Blair!" Sandburg turned at the not-so-subtle call from Serena. She was standing in the doorway to one of the houses, Megan grinning hugely behind her. The nurse made an unsuccessful attempt to swallow her glee as Chang handed a battered basket to the puzzled Maquisard. "Take this," she said in a stage whisper.

Blair made a mou of confusion and accepted the basket, tugging back a little of the faded cloth covering its contents. "What is it?"

Serena lightly slapped his hand away. "A present," she pressed a finger to her lips. "Take it. To him, the American, Ellison. Find a sunny spot, away from here, on the hills. Make him a nice picnic It is a -" she trailed off, searching her limited English for the right word.

"Welcome wagon," Megan supplied, grinning so hard her head was in danger was falling off. "Soften him up a bit before Reseau Merle show up. Lull him into a false sense of security so those smelly little vagrants don't scare him off."

Blair chuckled and swung the basket between his hands. "Ok," he whispered conspiratorially, returning the women's grins. "Can't lose him so fast, can we?" Basket banging against his hip, he made his way over to where Jim was standing alone, scanning the horizon.

"Jim?" Ellison didn't turn, still staring at the skyline. "Ellison? Leftenant?" Blair cautiously poked one solid shoulder and jumped back as the other man snapped around.

"Blair?" There was an odd expression on his face. Wariness, anger, and some fear. The hungry eyes of a jungle predator. Blair took another step back before it, holding the basket up as a shield.

"Picnic?" he offered in a small voice.


The hot spring sun beat down on them, and Blair tilted his head up, like a daisy. With a sigh of contentment he pulled off his shirt in a single, graceful movement and laid back into the soft grass. Jim followed suit, shoving his own shirt under the back of his neck as a crude pillow. Sneaking a glance over at the other man, he stared, hypnotised at the dense mat of chest hair, eyes skittering over the two brown nipples then slipping lower, and he burst out laughing.

Blair looked down at his too-big pants, hiked high to his breastbone and bound there with a rope. "What?" he sat up and stared at the sniggering Leftenant. He had the feeling he should have taken offence at this grand man laughing at the only set of clothes he had, but decided he liked the sound of that full-bodied laughter too much. "Don't laugh, this is the height of Parisian Fashion!" Scrambling to his feet, he walked a short way down the hill, waggling his ass exaggeratedly as Jim's sniggers turned to howls.

With a graceful turn, the Maquisard minced back and stopped halfway, legs braced, one hand playing with his rope belt. "You like zis, yes?" he drawled in a perfect imitation of the English parody of his native accent. "Maybee I show you more, American?" Tugging on his belt, he loosened it a little and threw his head back, hands on hips as he wiggled back to where Jim was helplessly clutching his stomach, tears pouring down his face.

He was a step away when the belt dropped, and his trousers fell around his ankles, baring his ass to the French countryside and his private parts to a wide-eyed Ellison.

"Merde!" With a strangled curse he tripped and fell as the pants caught his feet, landing flat on top of Jim. There was a confused jumble of arms and legs, and then he pushed himself up, propped on forearms either side of the older man, painfully aware of the way his suddenly awake penis was brushing the other's.

He tried to push himself up on his hands, only to have his palm slip on a patch of loose earth and send him crashing back down. Jim grunted at the added pressure, then shivered as the intimate contact to his groin sent little spiderlegs scurrying along his entire nervous system.

Blair felt a tentative bulge beginning in the clothing under him, and with an odd, almost shy smile, moved again, experimentally, feeling it harden under him. He watched delicate eyelids close over bright blue eyes, then Jim moaned, biting into his lower lip. Blair moved again, then the eyes flew open, hot with arousal, and Jim's arms were coming up around him. "Oh, god..."

Pants were suddenly an unbearable pressure to the Leftenant, hauled off hastily and clumsily by two sets of hands to catch around boots and left dangling as he darted upward to taste the inviting mouth hovering over his own. An explosion of tastes met him, a slight metal tang from the canteen water, some sweat, all rolling around and surround by another, stronger taste. Tasting Blair.

Blair felt strong hands weave lovingly through his hair as their tongues duelled, a moist intruder welcomed and greeted, offered a place of refuge as he searched for more of that taste that was exploding over him. Jim Jim and more Jim. He felt a movement at his groin, along his entire body, desperate and needy, and old as time itself and responded, wanting more and more, it could never be enough, not with this man, he didn't know how, and he didn't know why. He didn't care either, just knowing that it was needed, a joining, an act of love in a time and a world where all there seemed to be was hate.
 

Jim couldn't believe he was doing this. He was actually doing this. The straight man who never even looked at another guy, kept all the social rules and strictures, dated all the pretty girls and left 'em in the dust until he found the right one and settled down was frantically humping himself against another man, holding him tight, as if letting go in some way meant losing the warm, strong, muscular form that was jerking against him, with him. A crimson haze obscured his vison, blocking out all rational thought, blocking out everything except the urge to fuck and fuck and fuck until his dick fell off.

With primal howls, each found release, the hot fluid foaming and roiling, trapped between their bodies to smear against flesh already slick with sweat. Breathing was optional, air snatched between hungry kisses and explorations of each other.

The frantic movements slowed, and Blair drew back a little, raising his head, searching the other man's eyes for something undefinable. Wanted. Needed.

And found it.

They began to move again, this time finding a rythmn, the initial release taking the edge off their desperate hunger, making way to a slow, gentle loving, the glide of skin against skin as if they were made for each other, mouths brushing, meeting, then locking together as they moved, sharing breaths, or maybe not even sharing breaths, the other's presence all each man needed at this point in time and space.

With a gentle sigh, Blair came, head arching back, feeling Jim's hands cup his head, thumbs stroking just below his ears. Bowing his head again, he rested his forehead on the strong chest, then looked up, and the smoky desire and arousal, the pure love shining from the cerulean depths blew Jim away, ripping straight from his feet to his groin, and then out of his body in a seemingly never-ending stream.


Later, they reclined on the grass and opened the basket, astonished by what Serena and Megan had managed to scavenge. Some cheese, fruit, even a little bread. Some traded from local farms, some taken from ambushed supply trucks destined for fat Wehrmacht generals. There was even a bottle of wine, a rarity to be treasured, and each man resolved to make it up to the two women. Sprawled on the soft grass, feeding each other, they pretended there was no war, no death, just the two of them, the only people in a perfect world as they kissed, almost playful, trying to ignore the necessary guns that were a constant reminder of the fragility of their dream.

Jim lounged in Blair's lap, occasionally lunging up to lazily snatch a choice piece of food from the other man's hand, each finger being suckled in turn before he returned to his soft pillow of strong thigh. He was working his way up to the smaller man's wrist when a sound caught his ears. He paused, ignoring the puzzled inquiry from above his head, finally identifying the source. Soldiers. And they sure as shit weren't the resistance.

"Jim?" Blair leant down, brushing his lips against the short hair, only to draw back as the Leftenant sat bolt upright. Reaching for his clothes without another word, the older man began pulling them on, movements sharp and quick.

"Jim?"  His voice quavered, although he tried to steel it, fear blossoming into relief as his lover turned to face him, eyes warm and tender from a face set in stone. Then the single word that slipped from his lips brought back the fear. "Germans."

Blair didn't hear anything, but imediately snatched up his gun, dragging his pants up with his left hand, gun ready in the right. "Where?"

"East." Jim cocked his hearing, finding it less of a stretch, the low muted voices and soft treads closer to their position now. "A patrol, sounds like."

Blair took his arm, tugging him to the shelter of one of many rocks dotting the hillside. "Hide," he whispered. "If they're a scout, they're looking for us, the Maquis. Maybe they won't-"

A shot rang out, sending slivers of rocks flying from their barricade. "Or maybe they will." Jim clenched the grip of his sten a little more firmly in his hand, then rolled out to one side, keeping low to the ground, spraying a quick burst at the targets he saw approaching. Targets, that's all they were. Not men, not the freckle-faced blond and dark-haired teenager types that were too goddamned young to die. They had weapons, and they were using them. That made them targets. Nothing more, nothing less. Not if you wanted to keep your sanity.

Or your life.

Jim watched the bullets bounce harmlessly off a nest of boulders in front of them. They were too high up on the hill, and the angle was too steep. For all the good they were doing, the two men may as well have been throwing cream pies and insults.

Blair nudged his shoulder and pointed at a little knot of boulders set in a point about twenty feet in front of them.

"Down there," he whispered, the sound somehow carrying easily of the noise of battle. "We can get a shot from down there."

Ellison shook his head.  Twenty feet of unprotected ground - rough ground at that. It would slow them down and they would be dead before they even made it halfway. "I don't think -"

But the kid wasn't listening to him, he was taking his opening, darting between the boulders dotting the hill, zig-zagging from one to the other, finally slamming into the point of a grouping of three. "SANDBURG!!" Jim watched helplessly as the impossibly small figure stood rock steady in the face of the shells pulverising his safe haven, calmly and coolly taking aim and firing, again and again, full lips moving soundlessly in a prayer for forgiveness as man after man fell in front of his onslaught.

Bellowing his rage as a returned shot came too close, Jim stood, lobbing grenade after grenade overarm, watching them roll like obscene eggs down the sparse vegetation. He was a perfect target, proud, tall, uncaring, invincible. He would live. He had to live.

Because death would not hold Sandburg. And the prospect of Ellison drifting through eternity without him was fucking UNACCEPTABLE.

Snatching up his gun, he ran down the hill, long legs eating up the distance as he sprayed a covering fire until he fell on his knees beside Sandburg in the tiny knot of rock that seemed barely large enough to hold one. Between the grenades and the deadly hail from the twin Stens the patrol retreated, more than half their number dead.

Jim reloaded his weapon and raised it at the retreating men, but Blair knocked it aside. "Leave them," he whispered. "They're going, gone. Nothing to fight for. Please."

Jim looked from the last figures to his new-found lover and nodded, swinging his gun to the ground as he ran desperate hands over the trembling figure. "Are you ok?" he demanded. "Hurt?" Blair shook his head, shivering as reaction set in. "Dammit Sandburg, if you ever do anything like that again!" Jim cut himself off and hauled the smaller man into his arms, bringing him close for a desperately fearful kiss.

Blair made a mewling, needy noise in his throat, leaning into the long hands entangled in his hair, turning his head side to side, exploring, tasting, taking, giving, over and over, then drawing away, jerking, eyes looking down, then closing, face twisting in agony as reality intruded. "I killed them..."

Blair staggered away, throwing up, over and over, every inch of that marvellous, scavenged, interrupted picnic expelling itself, leaving him retching and convulsing under dry heaves for so long that Jim started to be afraid. Hesitantly he came up behind the wretched figure, one hand reaching out to rub steadying circles on the strong back while he murmured reassurances. "It's ok, bebe," he soothed softly in French, finally coming closer to wrap his arms around the shaking figure. "It's ok, it's all right, shh, shh. "

Blair leaned back into the embrace, hands coming up desperately to cling to the strong arms encircling him as he sobbed. "IT'S NOT ALL RIGHT!!" He screamed the words into the sky, and the Leftenant flinched. "I killed them.." Blair whispered softly with an agonised glance to the bodies on the grass. "Jim, I, oh god, oh god, little boys, they were only little boys, they could have been men, but oh god, I killed them, I killed them..."

"Blair..." Ellison tried desperately to get through to the smaller man, his large hands wrapping around the smaller ones, trying to rub warmth into suddenly chilled flesh. But Sandburg was almost catatonic, words of penance falling rapidly from his lips as wide blue eyes stared off into the distance. Panicked now, Jim lifted a hand to slap the smaller man, but his arm dropped down, far short of its goal. He could never raise his hand to mar the precious skin, even in a situation like this. Slinging his Sten over his shoulder, Jim picked up Blair, cradling him to his chest, holding him close, all senses on alert, expanding outward and outward, searching, hunting for any sign of the enemy as he headed for the safety of the Reseau.


Megan met them at the perimeter, dropping smoothly from the tree as her shift as lookout ended, stepping forwards and pulling the guns from Jim's body. "Is Sandy all right?" she pressed a hand to Blair's forehead, scurrying to keep up as Jim strode to their house. "What happened?"

 "Germans." Jim replied tersely.

"Bloody hell!" Megan was tugging at the arms Blair had wrapped around himself. "Is he hit? Sandy, let me see."

"No, he's not hit, he just..." Ellison stopped dead in the middle of the street, at a loss, turning left and right.

Megan suddenly stilled. "He killed some of them, didn't he?" she asked quietly. "The young ones."

 Ellison locked eyes with her and Conner shivered. No longer the flat pools of a killer with his soul teetering on the edge of oblivion, but warm, desperate, pleading with her. "Help him..." he held his arms out, offering his lover like a child with a treasured possesion. "Please"

 The nurse opened her mouth, but it was Simon who spoke. "Bring him in here." He opened the door to the little house and Jim followed him like a frightened dog, stumbling and nearly falling over the doorstep because his entire focus was on his lover.

 The Leftenant was barely aware of the rooms around them as Simon led him through the house to the bedroom. Some part of his mind told him he should know the way, he had chosen it, not out of any pleasing aesthetic values, but because it was on the edge of the town, teetering near the roadway entry, close to the action, close to where his death would be waiting when the German came storming in.

 Blair hooked an arm around his neck, holding on tight, and suddenly Jim wanted another place to stay. Up the other end of Grenoble. Somewhere other than France, Europe, or anywhere the war was.

 He knew the bedroom now and didn't question why as Simon pulled back the covers on Ellison's own bed. It was obvious to anyone, the love between them. Like a beacon. "What's wrong with him?" he repeated helplessly.

 "He gets like this after battle," Simon said softly in reply. "He doesn't like to kill. "

 Jim nestled the crumpled figure deep in the soft mattress, piling the covers on high. "None of us like it," he said sharply, ice eyes coming up to pierce the older man. Blair whimpered and one hand darted to grip the large one stroking his forehead. "But we do what we have to. I've never seen this before," Jim confessed helplessly, sliding under the covers and pulling the smaller man closer, tucking him into the curve of his own body, wrapping him in a safety blanket of Leftenant.

Simon sat on the end of the bed, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in the covers between his fingers. "Dislike is the wrong word," he said, the rich tenor of his voice carrying through the room. "Blair hates death. Loathes it. Every fibre of his being rebels against the act, so hard it makes him physically ill. "

 "But?" Jim pressed. "There was a definite 'but' on the end of that sentence."

"An astute question," Simon acknowledged. "But he pushes it aside. We can't carry dead weight, and he knows it. So he makes it wait, even though it tears at his soul, leaving him bleeding and dying inside, he makes it wait. Until it's safe. " Amber flecks sparkled in the dark man's eyes as he looked up at the Leftenant. "Blair feels things with all his heart. Everything. Every word, every thought, every deed imprints itself on his very soul. The first time he killed, he was so ill, I thought he was going to die. " He rubbed his arms and moved to stoke a fire. "And it got worse each time. Each death took away a little more of him, and yet he couldn't stop, would never let a simple thing like the death of his soul prevent him helping another. I saw him wither and age, waiting for an ending, until even he no longer cried." Banks paused and turned, a chunk of wood in his hand. "Until he met you. "

Jim shook his head in a silent dnial, remembering the chatty, seemingly content man that had been his companion on the road to Grenoble. Surely the Captain didn't mean his Blair?

 "My Blair?" he didn't realise he had spoken the words out loud until Simon dropped the last of the wood into the fire and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, fingers coming up to knead the bridge of his nose.

"Leftenant. Ellison. Jim. I was brought up..." he trailed off and scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to find the right words. "I was brought up to believe that your sort of love was...wrong. Evil. " He held up a hand to stave off Jim's protests. "Hear me out. I had a good Catholic home. A good Catholic church. Everywhere I turned, I was facing these words, these 'immutable truths' and I eventually began to believe them. Until the war came.

"I lost a lot of things when the war started. The first things to go were my perceptions. I learned a lot of those truths were false, I saw what happened to my friends, I saw the madness take over and I saw death. I stopped believing in the tenets of a God who could let this sort of thing happen. And eventually I stopped believing in the God. But one thing I never stopped believing in was the power of humanity. " He gestured to Sandburg, smiling a little when he notice the smaller man was asleep. "Blair is one of the most human people I have ever met. He still loves, he still smiles, and most importantly, he still feels. And when I look at the two of you, I don't see the evil I was always told. I just see two people in love. Take care of him." He got up off the bed and moved for the door.

Jim reached out and caught his arm. "Simon...thanks. "

The captain smiled, sadly. "Like I said, I've seen a lot of things, Jim. A lot of things that belong down there with Satan. And when it comes to that, what you two share isn't even on my list. "

 Jim sat there for a long moment, looking after the retreating Captain's back, pondering on his words and the reality between Sandburg and himself. A man sick of death. A man wanting to embrace it with open arms. And yet, somehow, they they had each found something in each other. Something that could heal them both. Shifting a little, he settled on his side, watching his lover sleep.

Lover.

It seemed a strange word to apply to the angel in his bed. And the sin they had comitted. Was it a sin? Ellison had never cared one way or the other, laughing mechanically at the crude jokes about what sailors got up to on their ships. What did it matter to him? But now it was him, he was doing it and he couldn't hide behind the laughter any more.

Was it a sin? Their act of passion? Jim wracked his brains, trying to think of a biblical passage that made them evil. Long dozy afternoons from his childhood came to mind, his mother reading from the leather bound book in a loud, clear voice. A chapter a day, shifting back and forth a little in her rocking chair. He couldn't think of one word she had said that had made him tainted, short of 'living in sin.'

Stealing a hand out, Jim wrapped a lock of Blair's hair around his fingers. The Maquisard snored a little, nestling further into the body beside him, exhaustion dragging his body into a deep healing sleep. Ellison patted the curly head a little, playing with the long strands, watching them slip and drag over his digits while his mind pondered. They needed a wash soon. In fact, all of Blair needed a wash. So did Jim, a hard trek through stony dusty roads, sweat and dirt stained skin covered in white musk. Jim fancied he could still smell their release on himself.

And it smelt wonderful.

Carefully releasing the hair wrapped around his hand, he bent down and kissed the sleeping man's lips. Who cared if it was a sin? With so much sin and evil around them, what did one more matter?

No, not sin. Love.


 It felt wonderful, to just lie there and hold a warm body, Jim reflected, slowly drifting back to wakefulness. To feel the person in your arms return the embrace, content to snuggle. He missed snuggling. Carol had never been one for it, always frumpy and grumpy, or already gone when he awoke.

 Morning stubble scratched teasingly at his arm, then two full lips were pressed to his cheek. "Good morning," Blair said politely.

 "Good morning," Jim said back, equally politely. Then he launched himself at the smaller man, bedclothes rumping and flying as he plundered Blair's mouth. And damned if Sandburg wasn't returning the favour.

 Finally they rolled to a stop, and Jim tugged the smaller man to him again, liking the way the slender body fit so well into the curve of his own. He slowly traced circles around Blair's nipples with his fingertips, nuzzling into the juncture between his shoulder and neck. "You know, I've been thinking," he mused teasingly, shuddring a little in anticipation as a warm hand snuck over his body. "And - " he trailed off and let his head fall back, relishing the feel in those scampering fingers across his skin.

 "And...." Blair drew the end of the word up into a question, his questing hand happily stroking and fondling everything in reach.

Jim leaned over and kissed the smaller man, tasting the salt from the last nights tears and smelling the unwashed, sweaty smell. "And, I think my little cochon needs a bath," he teased, nuzzling a perfect, shell-like ear.

"Cochon?" Blair fairly shrieked, rolling over and clamping his knees firmly astride Jim's pelvis as he pretend to smack the man helpless with laughter beneath him. "COCHON???"

 "Hmmm..." Jim made a show of sniffing the air and Blair pelted him with a pillow. When he pulled the cushion away, Jim was using the index finger of his right hand to push his own nostrils up, honking and grunting like a truffle hunter.

It was the final straw. Blair sat there speechless for a long moment, then finally threw his head back and screamed with laughter. Howling helplessly, the Maquisard toppled off his lover and to one side, clutching the pillow in his hands so tightly Jim thought he could hear the material tearing.

Jim decided he liked the sound of Blair's uninhibited laughter. He liked it so much, he decided to hear more. Creeping one hand along the mattress, he mercilessly attacked the smaller man's stomach. There was more hair down here, he discovered, soft and silky, a delight to his fingers as he tickled over ribs that stood out a bit too sharply.

 Blair shrieked and tried futilely to squirm away, panting and flapping his hands in a flurry of slaps at the invading digits as peal after peal of laughter blessed the air. Finally he managed to escape. "D'ac, D'ac!" he gasped. "Ok! I'll take the damn bath! On one condition."

 Jim waggled his fingers threateningly. "No conditions, my little piggy," he warned.

 "One." Blair rolled over and covered the larger body with his own. "You bathe with me."


Blair moaned as the hot water caressed him. "Heat..." he turned and made kissy motions to the faucet as Jim stepped into the water. "Oooh, I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou...."

 Ellison pouted as he settled himself up the other end of the tub. "Does that mean I'm replaced?"

 Blair tickled him with his feet as he closed his eyes, soaking up the heat. "Unless you start spouting warm water, yes," he replied solemnly.

 "Ahhh," Jim leaned back, water splashing around him. "But will this bath take you to a place of endless sun?" he asked slyly.

 Blair cracked open one eye. "I'm listening..."

 Jim smoothed his hands up the other man's calves. "Where would you like to go, mon 'tite cochon? Florida? Mexico?"

 "I went to Mexico once.." Blair splashed his toes in the water, watching the little ripples spread out to rebound from the sides of the tub.

 Jim caught the wayward foot and settled it in his lap with its mate. "When?" he asked, sensitive fingers massaging the fleshy pad on the sole.

 Blair threw his head back and moaned in ecstasy. "Avant la guerre," he gasped, "I was studying the cultural remnants of the Aztec empire."

 "Studying?" Jim's hands drifted into stillness as he realised how little he knew of his lover. "Why?"

 Blair demandingly thumped his foot, splashing him. Taking the hint, he resumed the foot massage with a wry little smile as the Maquisard continued. "I was studying the people..." He slid down further in the tub as Jim hit a sensitive spot "oooooooooooo.......anthropology....."

 Jim started on the other foot. "So you were studying to be an anthropologist?"

 "Am an anthropologist," Blair was melting into a puddle under the strong fingers. "Professor. Got my doctorate three days before they broke the Maginot Line."

 Jim let his hands move on their own as he studied the smaller man. His Blair a Professor? He looked no older than 26, 27, not the stuffy, grey haired gentlemen he usually associated with that level of knowledge.

Blair arched lazily as he fished for the soap, body undulating along Jim's legs as he recovered his prize. Soap, real soap, an incredible luxury with the nazi restrictions. More highly prized than chocolate, even - chocolate might taste nice, but you couldn't roll it over your body to get rid of the smell. "So what about you?" he asked, lathering up a foam in his fingers and smoothing his soapy hands over Jim's chest.

 Ellison shrugged. "Army. My brother cashed in big on the crash of '29, he owns some company in the US." He leaned forwards with a gasp as the slick palms teased his nipples "Never really could get into the corporate dig, so I went back into the armed forces. Then the war started and..." he shrugged again.

 Warm water waved around them as Blair shifted in the tub, kneeling between the older man's thighs as he continued his washing. "And that's it? Just army?" His hands slid up to knead the older man's shoulders. Jim moaned incoherently as the smaller man brushed against him, an innocent little smile on his face, even though he knew exactly was he was doing to the Leftenant. "No wife?" Blair pressed with a little twist of his hips to the right, that same innocent half smile tickling his lips. "No children?" Another twist to the left. "No little cottage by the seashore?"

The maddening movements quickly became too much, and Jim wrapped his arms around the base of the smaller man's back, grinding their groins together hard. Blair's grin grew impossibly wider as he held on, head falling back and lips gasping open as a warm, hungry mouth attached itself to his nipples, sucking and nipping, blowing cool air, the contrast startling and aching.

 "Jiiiimmmm..." he moaned and thudded his fists against the muscled back in a little drumbeat of ectasy as the other man switched from one side to the other, the movements between them faster now, water sloshing up and over the sides of the tub to spray the floor as the Maquisard raised himself higher on his knees, then dropped, pounding harder against the waiting flesh as Jim grunted. Finally it proved too much, the warm water slicking and splashing around them pushing the pair right over the edge, the tattered tiling bounding the noises of their release back at them over and over again.

 WIth a sound that was half gasp, half sigh, Jim toppled backwards, water waving around him as he fell back bonelessly into the tub. Blair fell with him, slumping over his chest, content to be held and petted until his brain returned from its sojourn.

 Jim carded his hands through the hair at his chest, over and over, noting the way each strand felt gliding across his knuckles. "Your hair.." he murmured, stretching a coil out to its full length, watching the highlights playing. "So beautiful.."

 "I should cut it.." Blair whispered drowsily. "They have barbers here, or scissors. Make myself respectable..."

 "No!" Winding a length around his hand, Jim slowly brought the other man's face to his. "No cutting." He kissed the full lips, and went back to his playing, memorising each and every individual strand. "Can I.." he started hesitantly. "CanIwashyourhair?" The words came out in a jumble as Jim stroked his hands over the tumbled silkiness. Caroline had never let him touch her hair, perfumed and coiffed and fussed over for hours on end until it was 'just perfect.'

 Blair turned over in the tub and laughed at the whiteness billowing outwards through the water, like a giant amoeba. "Not in this water," he said comfortably, snuggling a little further into the strength at his back. He peeked over the edge and winced at the mess on the floor. "I don't think we have enough water left in the bath."

 "Well, how about another bath?" Jim suggested.

 Blair blinked at him, and Ellison could almost see the little cogwheels turning in his mind, shifting from viewing a hot bath as a dreamt of luxury, to a luxurious reality. He checked the little water heater, then shrugged, reaching down for the plug and dangling it in front of him by the chain. "Why not?"

 Together they flopped back against the sloping end of the tub, Blair leaning against Jim's chest, feeling the liquid warmth slowly drain away around them and watching the way the smaller man's penis bobbed in the retreating water until it sat lonely on the bottom of the tub.

 Blair looked down with a frown. "That looks so...sad," he remarked mournfully, before going off into gales of laughter.

Jim smiled. That was one of the things he loved most about the smaller man, his ability to laugh, take amusement in even the smallest (or largest, truth be told) things - even at the expense of himself. Blair poked the plug back in with his feet, then with a bit of fumbling turned the taps back on with his toes, reluctant to leave his warm, snuggly pillow. There was more fishing for soap, followed by some snuggling and smooching as the water levels rose, and Blair barely managed to turn the taps off again before the tub overflowed.


Jim lathered the last of the soap between his palms and gently reached down, awkwardly rubbing it into the sodden locks waiting. Blair purred wantonly under the massage, tilting his head back into the strong fingers, exposing the graceful curve of his neck.

Jim caressed the curls in his hands, worshipped them, but more and more he found his gaze drawn to that delicate curve of skin. He watched the smaller man's adam's apple bob, entranced by the way it dipped and swirled, an ever-so-faint vibration to the left where his pulse beat strong and steady. He was slowly drawn in by that steady beat, losing himself in the sensations of the silk against his hands, the warm over his body, the thrumming of that heart and the gradual drop of the water forming up the end of the tub, each drop growing from the faucet, becoming fat and finally detaching to land with a little plop.

"Jim?" He came back to himself with a start. The water around them was cooling now, Blair's blue eyes looking up at him concernedly past a few stray soap bubbles. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he shook off the faint uneasy feeling gripping the edges of his mind, a little shocked by how much time had passed without his knowledge. Reaching out, he picked up a cracked old jug, filling it with water from the tub and poured it over it over Blair's hair, rinsing all traces of the soap away, careful not to get it into the smaller man's eyes.

Afterbath towelling of each other quickly led to other things, but this time they made it to the bed, at least. An hour later, they both agreed to a quick swipe with a damp cloth and calling it clean before reluctantly going outside.

As soon as they appeared, Banks put them to work. A sizeable stock of weapons and ammunitions had been gathered in Grenoble, and all the Reseaux were taking it, piece by piece to the stronghold in Vassieux.

Mills bombs, rifles, Brens, all the weapons they had airdropped from the Allies or simply stolen were slung into packs. The ammunitions were carefully packed into old army lockers. Jim and Blair worked seriously, both well aware that a moment of stupidity could send them to Vassieux a hell of a lot faster than they expected.

Jim moved to take up the final battered old ammunitions locker, only to find a cheeky pixie sprawled across it. "Blair.." he moaned, as the pixie gave him a distinct 'Come hither' look. Pouting a little, Blair stood up and grabbed his pack, double checking his supplies before shrugging it on. Each movement precise and economical.

Jim followed suit, then bent to pick up the locker, a million dark jokes running through his mind

'...don't drop the soap...'

He chuckled and straightened.

As soon as he had a firm grip on the heavy locker, he felt a warm hand smooth over his biceps. He knew it was Blair. Instantly. In only the short time they had been together, he had learned the touch of his lover like no other.

The nimble fingers trace over each curve of his muscles, one hand per arm, a familiar warmth pressed against his back. The hands trailed up and over his arms, no sound from the form behind him, only a light breathing, as if the inspection was too fascinating to comment on.

The hands slid down to explore his forearms, then slid around his waist, gripping it gently. Jim held his breath as the fingers inspected his stomach, vaguely feeling the way the grips on the locker dug into his fingers. Then it faded, nothing else existing but the gentle inquiry.

Those fingers slipped into his shirt, finding the gap where he had lost a button, caressing the outline of his ribs. Warm breath shivered between his shoulderblades, hot against his back as they trailed from his sternum upwards, overlapping briefly, little hairs on the sturdy wrists making him shudder as they prickled his flesh. They slipped up higher, drawing his shirt up a little with the motion, two fingertips teasingly circling his nipples.

The arms holding the munitions locker start to shake, just a little, and he flexed his muscles in a teasing Alpha Male show of strength.

"Mmmmm....." a long, drawn out rumble emananted from the man behind him, vibrating through his entire body as the hands slid back down, slowly untangling from his battered old shirt, down his hips and down the outside of his equally battered pants. Smoothing down his thighs, even muffled by the dusty material, that touch set his skin on fire.

Electrons of heat zoomed along his body as the fingers walked their way, spider-like across the tops of his thighs to his penis, brushing once, teasingly across the bulge in his pants before stroking along the stretch of skin joining his groin and legs. Back and forth, back and forth...

Jim dropped the locker, missing his foot by a bare inch as he turned to take the smaller man in his arms for a long kiss. As they seperated, out of the corner of his eye he saw Brown grudgingly toss a packet of cigarettes to a grinning Simon before the Captain called them to move out.


Blair alternated between smiling, grinning and outright leering at his lover as they moved along, swinging the locker between them a little like a swing. Jim returned the facial expressions, feeling as giddy as a teenager in love for the first time. He was nearly twenty years past that age bracket, but it really didn't matter. It was so hard to believe that they were at war. The sun was out, there was no sound of gunfire or death, just the occasional chirping of birds and the companionable chatter between the members of the Reseau. It seemed like any other day, the mountain paths gently sloping upwards no problem whatsoever.

Until they found the first body.

The Maquis seperated, packs abandoned in unison and Stens slung down into readiness, melting silently into the rocks and trees, the need for survival giving them a synergy and preciseness that would have made any trained drill Sergeant bite his baton in two and sob with pure joy.

Henri and Sam continued on ahead, scouting the area before giving the all-clear. The others glided back out of cover, and continued ahead.

A battle had been fought over the musty patch of dirt road, craters gouging through the surface, rock fragments tossed aside like abandoned toys. It looked like a nazi patrol had caught a Maquis party. Both sides had sustained heavy casualities. It was hard to tell who won.

The party moved through the strewn bodies, the battlefield eerily silent, broken only by the sounds of their own feet, the cry of a lone bird and the buzz of flies drawn to the resultant smorgasboard.

Simon flipped over a corpse with his boot. The staring eyes of a young woman met him. Most of her chest was gone. He dragged a hand over his face. "Ok people, let's do it."

Still moving in that eerie silence, afraid somehow to break it, the Maquis methodically began stripping the corpses of what they could use. The nazi corpses were stripped with brutal efficiency, but the Maquis were left, only their weapons reclaimed by their fellow fighters. There was no time to bury the bodies, but ragged clothing was draped reverently over contorted faces, prayers hastily murmured over the fallen comrades.

Jim watched his lover, wanting to protect the smaller man from all this carnage. Blair moved almost mechanically, eyes slightly shuttered and glazed, as his mind took refuge somewhere else from the task he was performing. Weapons in one pile. Ammunition in another. A third for items they would take only if they could - canteens, field rations, blankets and the like. Blair sized up the boots on a corpse, and if it wasn't for the incredibly sad look on his face, he may as well have been a carefree young man shopping for shoes. Sickened by the sight, but even more sickened by the fact that he approved the action, Jim stood up.

And heard the voice.

"Bitte..." The pleading whisper drifted through the air. Jim jerked his head around, searching for the source, one part of his mind wondering why no-one else appeared to hear it.

"...wasser..."

He honed in on the sound, aware of Blair beside him. Rolling aside a battered corpse, he found a wounded soldier, no older than eighteen, dirt and blood streaking his Teutonic features and smearing back into his dark hair, eyes staring fixedly up into the sky as his cracked lips moved again.

"Wasser.."

Beside him, Blair exploded into action, shrugging out of his pack and dumping it on the ground, pulling out his canteen. Going to his knees beside the supine figure, he gently lifted the wounded man's head and shoulders, pressing the water to the dry lips.

The soldier took one hesitant sip, then another, then the glazed eyes focused on his rescuers.

"Gott!" With a strangled exclamation he tried to shy away, but Blair held him firmly, yet gently.

"Es ist in ordnung, est ist ok. Shh, shh, Wir nicht verletzen Sie." Blair tore a strip off his shirt and ran some water over it, gently wiping the other man's face clear of the grime. "Wo sind Sie hurt?"

The soldier watched him warily, like a predator about to strike. He shifted a little, then blanched in pain, falling back into Blair's supportive embrace. "Mein Bein"

"Shh," Blair ran the water soaked cloth over the fevered forehead, then offered a little more water. "Jim, he says his leg is hurt," he said softly. "Can you please look?"

Jim hesitated, then nodded, kneeling beside the pair. He studiously avoided the panicked eyes resting on him, gently examining the unnatural angle of the soldier's lower left leg.

The leg was in the early stages of gangrene, the subtle smell of putrefaction tainting the air. The flesh around the wound was swollen tight against the uniform pants, and Jim gently inserted two fingers into the bullet hole, tearing them open further. The soldier jerked a little in Blair's arms, then relaxed when he finally realised the two meant him no harm, tensing again as sensitive fingers gently probed his leg.

Jim gritted his teeth in sympathy as the injury was revealed. The bullet had shattered the bone just below the kneecap, the wound red and angry, with scarlet streaks radiating outwards over hot skin. The boy would never be able to walk without support, and once he got back to his own people and proper medical help, he would never walk on two legs again.

Jim rummaged in his pack and pulled out his tin of sulphur powder, knowing he had little to spare but using it anyway, hoping it would somehow help against the infection as he tore strips from his shirt to wind around the wound. If the soldier was lucky, he would only lose his leg from the knee down.

The others had gathered around them during the examination, and Jim could feel the prickles on his back from their stares, the muttered curses. He wondered at the incongruous tableau they presented. He had come here expressly for the purpose of killing Germans, yet here he was, trying desperately to save the life of one. Why?

He saw Blair whisper soothingly, gently cleaning the dirt and mud away from the soldier's battered face and throat and knew. If Blair of all people, after all he had been through could forgive, then so could Jim. He gently wound another strip of shirt around the injured leg, holding two rough splints in place, firm enough to give the young man a fighting chance on his feet after they had gone.

Blair was also aware of the scrutiny, the murmurs but ignored them. He flashed his lover a grateful smile when he saw the splints, and offered more water to the soldier, who drank thirstily. A little too fast, he coughed and choked, some of it coming back up. Blair wiped it away without fuss, uttering more soothing reassurances, smiling down at the confused blue eyes, so much like his own. Shame washed through his being, agony tearing at his soul. They had done this, the Maquis. They had left this boy to die alone and in pain, and he wondered how many times he had done the same. How many times had he thought he had killed and walked away, leaving a single soul to die in torment, surrounded by the corpses of his colleagues?

He couldn't think about it, didn't want to think about it, concentrated instead on saving this one life, as if it could somehow ease his own guilt.

He felt Jim shift away, then another shadow was cast across them.

"Blair." Sandburg tried to ignore the sombre tones of his Captain, coaxing the young soldier into drinking a little more water, just a little more, cleaning the rest of his wounds and easing him into a more comfortable position on the hard clay ground.

"Blair." This time he did look up, already shaking his head at the words he knew were to come. "We can't leave a trail," Simon said softly, heart breaking at the determination and sorrow on the younger man's face. "If he gets back to his unit, any unit, before we get there, we are dead. One life for all of ours, it isn't worth it. We have to -"

"WRONG," Blair snarled, and everyone recoiled at the venom in his tone. "We DON'T have to. We don't have to become them. We don't have to kill and destroy because it's more convenient than helping and healing." He turned back to his charge, offering a little more water to the parched lips.

"Sandburg." At the commanding tone, Blair whipped his head around and pierced Simon with a gaze so angry, so vicious, so sorrowful and pleading that the other man took a step back before the sheer force of it. Blair pressed his canteen into one dirty hand, avoiding the wounded man's face, knowing, just knowing that somehow the man knew what they were talking about, knew that it was his life they were bandying about and arguing like some obscure point of law.

And he couldn't face that.

Stepping back, Blair made a show of adjusting his pack, keeping his hands far from the gun over his shoulder. "You want it done, you do it, Banks," he said coldly. "I may kill, but I will not murder. " And he walked off, Ellison, then Rafe, then Taggert, then the others following him, streaming away one by one until only Sam and Simon were left.

Simon stared after the young man for a moment, then swung his Sten off his shoulder and pointed the gun downwards. He stared for a long moment into the terrified features below him, the blue eyes locked onto the barrel, cringing, waiting for oblivion. Ever so slightly the muzzle began to waver, then Simon swung the gun back over his shoulder.

Sandburg was right. He couldn't do it, not here, not like this. It was wrong. Killing this child would make him cross the fine line between resistance fighter and murderer. He smiled reassuringly at the wounded young man and continued onwards, catching up with the others.

Sam was the last. She stopped by the German soldier and looked dispassionately down at him as he tried to smile. Then she raised her gun.

Blair flinched and leaned a little closer into the strong body walking at his side as the chatter of a Sten shattered the still morning air. Jim brought an arm around his lover's shoulders, and turned his head to press a tender kiss to the closed eyes. His ears caught a fragment of a whispered prayer, and it made him love the younger man all the more.


It was a solemn group that entered St. Nizier that evening, the last stop before Vassieux. Sam caught up with Jim and Blair just before they reached the outskirts.  With a challenging stare to Ellison, she tossed Blair his canteen, and a pair of boots before moving on.

Blair stopped short in the middle of the road,  staring at the canteen in his hands as the people streamed around him and into the town.  The boots fell unnoticed and unwanted to the ground, his gaze locked on the little metal shape in his hands.  He studied it from all angles, like a times crossword, worrying a little at the lid, playing with the belt clips.

A large hand slid into view and Jim took the canteen away, replacing it with his own.  The Maquisard looked up and gave his lover a grateful smile and a kiss on the cheek before slinging an arm around his shoulder as they walked into the town together.


With a decided pout, some exaggerated yawning, and a handful of real francs,  Blair secured them a little house in the town center. There were even more Maquis here than in Grenoble, all headed for the strongholds in the Vercors mountains, thrumming with energy, alive, thrilling in the reunion with old friends, mourning the loss of those who didn't make it, buzzing with speculations of the Allied plans for them now D-Day had come.

After so long, it looked possible.  They dared to hope that La Patrie would soon be free.

With a saucy grin., Blair liberated another handful of francs from Jim and went in search of a meal,  wandering through the crowds, stopping every so often to touch a person, return an embrace, hold a conversation.

Jim wandered a little aways, to what was once a local picnic spot, where young lovers would come to spoon.  He ran his fingers over the names carved into the tree, generations meeting and loving, most probably being concieved here, in this spot.

Idly he wondered if there would be any more young lovers left to return after the war.  Not if the nazi's won, of that he was sure.

"Ellison." He turned at the low voice, unsurprised to find Sam standing there.  "I want you to leave Blair alone." She took a step closer, unconciously dropping into a fighting stance. "He's not for you. Leave him alone."

Jim resisted the urge to laugh in her face, remembering Blair's soft entreaty whispered late one night. /"Be careful with her, gentle. She is a great woman. Beautiful, before the war, inside and out. It's not her fault the nazis want her dead."/  "Why?"

"You tell me, yank." Sam moved closer. "You tell me you love him. You, a man, a Goy, an American. You tell me you love him when you have your warm safe bed at the end of your mission, and we are still here sleeping on the ground. You tell me when you sleep and we run, hunted down because of who we are."

Jim spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture and tried a smile.

Sam punched him in the face.

Jim staggered back from the blow, one hand cupping his nose. "Ellison!" he looked up to see Rafe approaching and held up a restraining hand. This was his fight. Wiping a smear of blood off on the back of his hand, Jim feinted to the right, then swung his legs out in a scissor kick, bringing Sam down as well.

Sam snarled and jerked a knife out of the rope wrapped around her waist as a belt. Jim dodged the first wild swing and backhanded her across the face, snatching the knife from the resistance fighter's grasp and holding it to her throat.

"JIM!" Another hand snatched the knife from his hand. "What the FUCK do you think you are doing????" Blair shoved him away from the supine woman, dropping to his knees to help her sit. "Are you ok?"  The basket of food now lay spilled across the ground. Ruined.

Sam wiped a splash of blood from her lip and winced, nodding, smiling at him and brushing his hands away as he fussed over her. "I'm ok, Blair," she whispered in Hebrew. "Hakol beseder."

Blair looked at the blood on her face, an abstract little smear on the side of his hand. Picking the knife up from the ground beside him, he studied it for a moment. "Jim, why did you do this?" he asked, voice steady. "Give me one good reason." His voice was rising now as he slowly got to his feet. "Is this what they teach you in America? Do they teach you how to kill innocent women? Slit their throats like animals in a slaughterhouse?!"

Jim tried to force his brain to form a coherent sentence in a language, any language at all. "She said...I...she was talking...about you, she -"

"About me? You did this over me?" Blair whispered it at first, then he was shouting. "OVER ME?" He hurled the knife to land blade first in the ground before Ellison, a warrior's challenge. "And what after Sam?" he demanded, anger surging through every inch of his frame. "Who's next? Joel? Simon? How many will you kill? Will you kill all my friends so that I'm yours alone?"

"Blair, I -"

Sandburg let loose with a right hook that sent him to the ground. "How many Jim? Tell me that?? HOW FAR WILL YOU GO?" Blair had totally lost control, wavering between English and French, even German, a language forever fixed in his mind as one for harsh screamed insults, as he raged at the Leftenant. He called him a bastard. He called him a murderer. All his fears and pains and losses over the duration of the war boiled over and scalded his lover.

Jim got to his feet, wincing mentally under the tirade, ignoring the protest from his aching head.

And walked away.

"COWARD!" Blair screamed after him.

The Maquisard stood there until the older man had disappeared into the forest, letting loose with a stream of invective until he ran out of breath, chest heaving. He made to step after his lover, but Rafe grabbed his arm.

"Sandburg!" The SOE operative had to use every ounce of strength he had to hold the incensed man still. Finally wrestling the smaller man to the ground, he sat on his chest and told him what happened.

The full story.

Blair lay there dazed for a moment after he had finished, breath coming in quick rasps as the enormity of what he had done hit him. Scrambling to his feet, he stared for a long time at the knife, still embedded in the ground, then turned on Sam. "Is this true?"

Sam got to her feet and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "You trust the word of an Englishman over me?"

"Sam. Is it true?" The sullen look on her face gave him all the answer he needed. "Oh god." Blair turned to head off after his lover.

"He won't want you," Sam snarled. "Look at him. The great white American. You think he really wants you? Look at us. Starving hunted Jews. Killers. You think he will take you home? Share his bed and his wife with you? He will go home and laugh when he remembers us." There was a harsh bitterness in the words she spat at Sandburg. "You are nothing to him. Something to keep him from les poules while he plays with the war."

Blair froze into immobility as her words hit home, smashing into all his hidden fears and insecurities. "Jim?" he whispered, an odd, queer note to his voice.

Rafe came up beside the smaller man and shook him by the shoulders. "Blair," he waited until the haunted blue eyes locked on his face. "Blair. She is lying. Jim loves you I don't understand it - hell I don't even know if I want to understand it, but he loves you. More than anything I've ever seen."

Blair blinked slowly, his thin frame beginning to tremble. "His wife? He didn't tell me he was.."

"He's not. Not in anything but paper." Rafe shook his head and told Sandburg what he knew of the reasons why Jim joined the Reseau. "Jim has nothing now," he finished softly. "Nothing but you."

Blair stared at Rafe, tears glistening in his eyes. "I told him to go," he whispered. "I called him a murderer, I told him he stank of blood and death. I- I pushed him away. Oh God." He sank to his knees, the tears uncontrollable now, pouring down his face over and over, dampening the ground beneath him. "Quelle folle suis-je! Quelle idiote, Quelle sotte..." he couldn't continue, the words stolen from him as he snatched in desperate breaths. Rafe caught the smaller man as he collapsed to the ground, holding him close, rocking him slowly and gently as he gasped for air, apologies falling like rain from his lips.

Rafe looked up into Sam's brown eyes. There was an almost undefinable emotion in them as she studied the intimate way Rafe held Sandburg, then it coalesced into a mixture of feelings. Anger, regret, sorrow, jealousy all passed through before burning back to the steady rage that was her usual state. Without another word, she picked her knife up and walked away, stuffing it back into her belt.


Jim wandered nearly two miles, the falling darkness enveloping him. He went nowhere in particular, wishing he could lose himself, but unable to, his mind turning traitor and meticulously recording every twist and turn that took him away from the town. Away from Blair.

Jim stopped in no particular place and leaned his shoulder against a tree. He was stupid. He'd done it again. Allowed himself a glimpse of what he really was, allowed himself to love only to have it burned to ashes, withered to dust. The old protection began to slip into place, categorising, pigeonholing, something he could hide behind. James Joseph Ellison. Fighter Pilot. OSS. Man, husband, all the roles he played in life. Underneath it all was him Jim, a man who was desperately afraid of living and dying alone, without love.

He turned his back to the tree and slid down it, feeling the bark through his shirt. Funny, he'd come here with the express purpose of finding a quick, speedy death, too cowardly to take his own life, somehow feeling that he owed it to everyone that courted the mask that he die gloriously, his memory hallowed and dignified. A war hero.

But now, he didn't want to die. He didn't want to be that man. He wanted to live forever. He wanted to be Jim. He wanted to be with the man who had shown him something he'd thought he'd been living, only now exposed as a shallow lie.

Reality. Not the hollow masks people always wore in public, fixed so firmly in place that they couldn't be removed, even in private. The anger Blair had shown him was pure. Real. The love was real. Everything about him was real. Blair wasn't a Maquisard, a resistance fighter, an anthropology professor, Jewish or even French. He was just Blair Sandburg. He just was.

And Jim felt jealous.

And at the same time, not jealous. Sharing his life with Blair, the smaller man had given to him a joining, a merging, somehow they were combining into the same thoughts, the same feelings, a protective shell that could withstand the insanity around them. Was it breaching, even now?

He had never felt this way about anyone before. Not the eighteen year old girl he had divested of her virginity, not the woman he had taken for a wife, not anyone. And he wanted it back. Because Blair let him be Jim not a puppet to be toyed with, not the whipped, almost emasculated puppy Carol had treated him as, but Jim.

And nothing was worth losing that. Not the war, not his wife, not the flat headed maniac with a burr up her ass. Straightening his shoulders in resolve, Jim began the long trek back to St. Nizier.


Continued in part two.