Chapter Text
It had been the same every morning for over a hundred years, both living and dead, with only the most necessary alterations. Rise, six o’clock sharp; not a moment of morning idleness or lolling in bed was entertained. Stretch. There was no need to dress, of course, but the Captain adjusted his clothing in a decent approximation of the ritual. Although no amount of poor weather had ever stopped him from embarking upon his morning run, it was a small mercy of his ghostly state that this bout of Friday morning rain could not bother him as he completed his usual circuit around the perimeter of the grounds of Button House. The sun had risen as he had, but he wasted no time admiring the blue-pink of the sky over the horizon; he was on a schedule. Everything was the same, from the English weather to the crumbling stone walls, to every red brick of Button House, and that was just how he liked it. Unusually, however, he found himself on his second lap. It was important to keep himself in peak condition; one could never know when an enemy might land on British shores, and when they did…The Captain jogged on, trying to keep these sentiments, however futile they might be, at the forefront of his mind. They were righteous, they were patriotic, and they were far more acceptable motivation for trying to avoid the interior of the house for as long as possible.
The house meant mess. The house meant noise. The house meant people. Ordinarily, he was grateful for the presence of Alison, Mike, and the other ghosts, even if most of them were undisciplined, slovenly, and immune to his efforts to maintain standards. He had spent enough time alone in life. But still…today, and tomorrow, he needed space.
He had seen a common linnet earlier, perched on a bush. It had been female; he knew by its lack of a red breast. They habitually nested in bushes; the Captain wondered if she had perhaps been minding some eggs. That was a nice thought. At least.
Remembering the events these dates, today, and tomorrow, had brought, all those years ago, brought the sort of pain the Captain had thought would end at his death. But even after all this time, it was as acute as ever. He jogged on, with a grimace that had nothing to do with the weather, or the exercise. Part of him longed to forget, wished those blasted events had never happened, those days that had left him with so many questions, questions which he would never answer. So long ago…and every detail was still in the sharpest of focus.
At the far end of the furthest field, the Captain skidded to a halt. When he turned back to look at Button House, his eyes fixed themselves on a first-floor window. His old office. Up the stairs, around to the left - he could still hear those boots on the floorboards...a shuddering breath escaped his lips.
He had to go back. He had to remember.
“Sir? The reports have arrived from-”
“Good Lord!” The Captain started so much that he almost fell from the ladder. Gripping the topmost rung to steady himself, he felt a sick sort of jolt in his chest that had nothing to do with the near-accident. The paper chains he was hanging about the mantlepiece of the drawing room were being crushed against the ladder, but although he had spent most of the previous night carefully cutting them out of old newspapers and linking them together, he scarcely noticed. There was no need to turn so urgently in the direction of the voice that had addressed him, none whatsoever, for he had memorised its exact timbre, pitch, and rhythms, as if it were a rare musical instrument. It could be no one else. But its sound had the sort of effect on the Captain that siren song had on Odysseus, and so he held fast to his ladder-mast, turned, and drank in every syllable of it.
“Oh! I’m terribly sorry,” It poured soft and measured from the shadow of the doorway. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Ah! Not to worry!” The Captain regained his balance, steadying himself without tearing his away from the advancing figure for a second. “I should thank you, Havers, for keeping me alert.” The paper chains in his hands grew ever more disfigured in his hands as he gripped the ladder with far more force than was necessary. Why was he such a bumbling idiot? Well, the answer was, he wasn’t. Well. Not this much.
“The place looks wonderful. So festive.” Havers smiled wanly as he came into the light, a bundle of files clutched to his chest. “I’m sure Fitzgerald will appreciate the effort.”
“Well, it’s not every day a young man turns twenty-one. It is good for morale to have a bit of structured fun now and again.” the Captain heard himself saying from somewhere far away. Whenever he spoke to Havers, he felt he needed to keep one eye on the door. The idea of someone walking in on them, no matter how innocent the conversation – and it was always innocent – kept the Captain up at night. He always felt as though, inherently, he were doing something wrong. Which, he supposed, in his silent way, he was. “There is a time and place for work, and a time and place for jollity – and that is at a party.” Neatly contained to the drawing room, with parameters and a curfew – perfect. Never let it be said that the Captain could not let his hair down. He made a mental note to remind the men to ensure the paper chains were salvaged afterwards. "This war won’t be over anytime soon, so I want everyone to feel as at home here as they possibly can. It will never be as cosy as their mothers' living rooms, but-“
“Oh, my mother hasn’t half so much artistic flair as this.” Havers’ smile broadened, the slightest glimmer reached his eyes. Oh, for God’s sake. The Captain clung grimly to the latter, and held back a sigh of exasperation. Every aspect of Havers’ appearance and manner seemed to have been designed specifically to torture him. Soft, and yet masculine, Havers had the sort of gentle, innocent beauty that men would go to war to protect. His dark hair, his English rose skin, his downcast eyes, so bright, so sad…to say nothing of that smile. That smile, that soft, sad, strange smile…
“Well – er –” Speaking seemed far more difficult when most of his energy was going into trying not to show just how much the compliment had flustered him. “Some of the lads offered to decorate, but they’d do half a job, you know. Just because they are going to make merry for the evening doesn’t mean standards have to drop.” Besides, decorating for the party afforded him a free pass to avoid the event itself (and he absolutely intended to avoid it). His contribution was evident, even if his presence was not.
It was at this moment that he realised he had all but destroyed the paper chains. “Er –“ he stammered, shoving them quickly behind his back. Although he was somewhat irritated by the wasted evening, it seemed far more important that Havers did not see his mistake. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be talking down to you!” Smiling bizarrely, he began to descend the ladder with one hand. “Let me just-whoa!”
A second and a sickening swoop in his stomach later, the Captain found that he had hit the floorboards with a crash, the paper chains spilling out all around him. As he did so, he felt his forehead bounce off one of the rungs of the ladder, sending a sharp, dizzying pain through his head.
“Sir!” As the Captain tried to gather himself, pressing his fingers to his forehead and feeling hot wetness, he head footsteps hurrying towards him. “Are you alright?”
Although he would have taken such a head injury in anyone else very seriously, his own didn’t seem anywhere near as important as how ridiculous he must look. God, God, God, he was so stupid! Rushing to climb down the ladder when he was already unsteady and out of sorts from the slip – a classic blunder far beneath him. Why couldn’t he behave like a normal human being? “Take more than a fall to finish me off.” he said gruffly, trying to sound casual. “In my bally prime.”
“Your head-“ Havers had knelt beside him, all concern. He had discarded the reports. God, he was so lovely, and the Captain was a fool.
“No sign of concussion.” The Captain forced himself to sit up, ignoring how dizzy it made him. “Just a cut. Nothing at all.”
“Nonsense. Stay still.” The next thing the Captain knew, cool fingers were gently touching the side of his head, and a pair of dark eyes were surveying the injury. Was he feeling sick, or was it simply that his heartrate seemed to have doubled? Christ. A head injury seemed like nothing compared to the fact that Havers was touching him. He had wondered – he had imagined – he had – “You have to let me clean it at least. The last thing you need is an infection.”
“Ah-“ The Captain forced himself to blink, his face growing hot beneath his touch. “Please, I can handle it. Look.” He felt in his pocket and produced a small first-aid kit. “Always prepared.”
To his surprise and delight, Havers’ eyes crinkled in a knowing smile. “Why does that not surprise me? Give it here.”
Nothing would have made the Captain happier than to allow Havers to clean him up. The thought of those fingers on his skin again, an excuse to gaze into those eyes, simply to have him close…but he did not dare. Someone could come into the drawing room at any moment – and even worse, his cheeks were already burning, his hands trembling, his heart was beating so hard that he was astonished Havers could not hear it. By God, he would give himself away, he knew it. “I really must insist-“
“Well, that's just too bad.” Havers’ smile became teasing. “You’ll do half a job.” It must have been the sugar ration Havers enjoyed more than anyone else the Captain knew - he was sweet, so sweet, too sweet...Having distracted him with the smile, he had no issues taking the first-aid kit from the Captain’s weak, shaking hand. God. God, this was a disaster. He was going to blow it. He was going to ruin everything. His life would be over. This was the end. Oh God-
And yet, the world did not implode as Havers began to clean the cut. The Captain could do nothing but sit, transfixed as a child, trying not to sigh every time he felt the brush of his hand. It was true; Havers was much better at this than he was. He tried his best to direct his gaze at Havers’ forehead, a safe, neutral territory; but those eyes were impossible to resist. And so, breathing as shallowly as he could, he tried to ride it out. Though there was pain, it appeared to reach him from somewhere very far away. Havers' presence, Havers' touch, was better than any medicine. It wasn’t until he felt the sudden sting of the antiseptic that a small gasp shamefully escaped.
“Sorry.” Havers murmured.
“Ah, no.” The Captain’s felt himself burn more furiously than ever. “You’re…you’re very gentle, really.”
As Havers worked, a sort of nostalgia seeped into his expression. “Had enough practice. When I was a boy, I used to come home nearly every day covered in scrapes and bruises. But no sooner had my mother patched them up and kissed them, I was dashing back to my friends to get more.”
“Ha! Good Lord…” God, why did his laugh have to sound so stupid?
“I expect you were the same?”
Havers made him feel so safe...but he had to remember to keep his guard up. Such was the way when the elephant he brought into every room, the elephant he had to conceal, was becoming more evident every second he spent with him. “Ha. Not I. If I had ever come home muddy or with ripped clothes, my mother would have skinned me alive.”
Happily, Havers took this as humour. “You wouldn’t have had much skin left if you had been in our little gang.”
“Well, luckily I didn’t have a gang-I mean-“ The Captain’s wince had nothing to do with the antiseptic this time. He had said too much. For God’s sake, why couldn’t he just be normal? “I mean-“
Havers had given the slightest twitch. Perhaps, somewhere in those eyes, as bright as a robin's, there had been the stirrings of pity. But as soon as it had come, it was gone, and an adhesive gauze was being attached to his forehead. “There.” he said, very gently. “All patched up.”
“Ah. Well. Thank you very much.”
“Now you go easy today, alright?” Havers warned him, having packed the first-aid kit away and returned it to its owner. An unpleasant swoop shot through his stomach; was this it? The only time he was to feel Havers’ touch? He hated himself for not savouring it more, for not memorizing every little detail…and yet, he found there was little he had forgotten. “Why don’t you let me finish hanging these?”
He had forgotten about the poor, crushed paper chains. The sight of them, lying beside the discarded reports, brought him back into reality as abruptly as a bucket of water. Oh God, how long had they been alone? He had been so transfixed by Havers that the entire regiment could have marched past and he wouldn’t have noticed. “Right. Er. Yes.” His tone had become clipped and official once again. “Thank you, Havers. If you need anything, I shall be in my office.” Clumsily, he gathered up the files, and straightened up. Christ, he did feel a little bit queasy…but he had already given far too much away. “Good afternoon.”
“Sir?”
The Captain strode quickly from the drawing room, breathing heavily and gripping the reports like a life support. Never let them see…Never let anyone see…Never let him see…
Whoever was in charge of the gramophone was blasting In The Mood loud enough that it trickled out of the the drawing room, up the stairs of Button House, and into the Captain’s office. Every now and again, it was punctuated by a burst of laughter. Tapping a stack of papers on his desk to ensure they were perfectly aligned, the Captain shook his head. His own personal protocol dictated that he should go and tell them to keep the noise down. And yet, however much he tutted to himself, he found that he was continuing his paperwork without comment. He told himself that it was his love of Glenn Miller that had inspired this period of tolerance; that was the reason he would give anyone who asked. This was an exercise in keeping up morale, and the Captain would see it through. Moreover, young Fitzgerald was a good lad; officiant, very respectful, and always filed his paperwork. He deserved a bit of fun. Yes. It was for Fitzgerald he would indulge the noise. Not because of any other guests at the party, who would also be having fun. Who the Captain, despite his greatest efforts to remain focused, could not help but picture there. In the drawing room. Listening to Glenn Miller. Laughing.
This was something he didn’t tell even his pillow, something he kept in the most private recesses of his heart, something he had never shared with another soul; ironically, though, every time he saw his secret, it seemed to spill out of his every pore. All day every day, he tried nobly, however unsuccessfully, to conceal it. Discipline, discipline, discipline, that’s all it took. But when he was alone, especially at night, but even now in his office, he could allow his mind to wander. To picture. What would it be like? The simple pleasure of holding his hand, of embracing him after a long day, of having picnics beneath spreading oak trees and reading together by the fire on winter nights…such images enchanted and tormented him in equal measures. Even the merest notion of them now sent a jolt straight to his heart that hurt as much as it thrilled.
The truth was, he would never know, and so the closest he could get were these torturous imaginings. It was only the strictest of personal discipline that kept them from consuming him entirely. That was something he could be proud of, at least. Something in which he could take a tiny, perverse, and yet honest, pleasure. Even though there were some pleasures he would never-
“Yes?” the Captain called in response to a sudden knock. A second later, his office door swung open, and, as if he had climbed straight out of his mind, in walked his secret.
“Sir.” Havers gave a knowing smile as he closed the door behind him. “I thought I saw your light on. How’s your head?”
Good Lord, he was an angel…“Ah. Yes.” he said gruffly, trying to set his face. “I’ll live. Thanks to you.” Oh God, no sooner had he tried to put the mask on, it had slipped. Was the door closed all the way? Thankfully, Havers’ smile did not faulter.
“Are you coming down to the party?”
No, the idea makes me feel sick. The Captain gave what he hoped was a good-humoured snort. “The youngsters don’t want an old walrus like me hanging over the place. Besides, I’ve had time to organise next month’s reports, look.” He gestured to pile on his desk of perfect, blank files, immaculately labelled in neat, black ink.
As he regarded the files, Havers frowned slightly. “You’ve organized and filed reports that aren’t even filled out yet?”
“Well-quite.” The Captain clenched and unclenched his fists, burning with embarrassment once more. “Good Lord. Well, it will be easier down the line.” He looked up at Havers, searching for signs of mockery; and yet, he found none. Instead, there was a shine in his eyes, a curling of the corner of his lips, and an indulgent look that simply said: That’s so...you.
“Come down.” he suggested, taking a step towards him. “You were the one who made all the decorations, after all. I’m sure Fitzgerald wants to thank you – and you really don’t want to miss the cake!” His grin brightened. “It’s real butter! God knows how the kitchen scraped enough together...”
Here was Havers asking him to come to a party – and yet, the Captain found himself shaking his head. “No, no, that’s alright.” Havers could not know it, but the fact that he had asked him at all would sustain the Captain for months. The very thought of having such a happy memory to look back on brought a smile to his face. “Have mine. You’re the one with the sweet tooth.”
Ah. Good Lord. Now he had done it. A most curious expression passed across Havers’ face as he too realised what the Captain had said. Never had the two of them discussed their eating preferences, and yet, he had just revealed that he knew a little too much about his lieutenant. It was too personal, it was too far. All of the moisture had evaporated from the Captain’s throat. Oh God. Oh God –
“Go on.” Havers pressed, very gently. “The whole gang’s there.”
“Ah. No.” The Captain adopted his habitual brisk tone. Get out. Get out while you can, before you make it worse. You only ever make it worse. “No, thank you, Havers. You carry on – go and enjoy yourself. That’s an order. I must get back to work.”
Once the door had closed, the Captain buried his face in his hands.
As the clock ticked around, and the din from the party downstairs showed no sign of stopping, the Captain could find no more jobs to do, short of taking all the blank reports out of their new files and doing the whole process again. That was somewhat tempting, actually; he did love organising paperwork. But repetition could reduce his focus, which could lead to error, which could lose them the war. Especially since his focus this evening had already been compromised. He sniffed as he pointlessly reshuffled the pen pot on his already immaculate desk, arranging them by colour and age. Still, all of these desperate distractions did little to quiet his mind.
Why did Havers have to be so…gentle? This fact swung chaotically in the Captain’s mind between the most wonderful aspect of him, and the worst thing possible. On one hand, he adored it above all else. In these days of conflict and strange places, there was so little in the Captain’s life that was gentle, that had ever been gentle. However, it had a way of softening the Captain’s heart so much so that it was impossible to harden it against him. Frustrated, the Captain clasped a hand to his forehead – and winced as he disturbed the cut. Like a motion picture, this afternoon’s scene replayed in the theatre of his mind in technicolour. The sound of his boots on the floorboards. The touch of his fingers. Those eyes. Oh God, why did he always hurry him away? Out of fear, fear that he would reveal himself, fear that someone else would notice, dread, dread, dread. And because the idea of a few more precious seconds with him were just too sweet.
Perhaps he did not only have to content himself with imaginings. He also had...moments. Just fleeting moments, like that, were the happiest of the Captain’s life. He had to cherish them, hord them in the most secret compartments of his heart, hide them like the most precious buried treasure…and occasionally, in private, allow himself to bask in their glory. That was it. That was all he could ever hope for. It was an unbearably lonely thought; the Captain's life was so lonely, would always be lonely. But it was the only one he had, and he had to find a way to make it livable.
The Captain steeled himself, returning to his pen pot with a resigned dignity. Even in the face of friendly words, of kindness, of smiles…He had to face reality. He had to be tougher. For God’s sake, they were at war – there was no time for such foolish self-indulgence. He had to show more personal discipline, stop dwelling on these ridiculous daydreams and apply himself fully to his work. That was what Britain needed right now. Focus, determination, and –
Knock.
And as soon as it swung open, and the distant gramophone sound of A String of Pearls filled the office, he melted like butter.
“Ah! Havers. Again. Not that –“ He stammered. “Not that I’m not happy to see you! I mean –” Oh God, it was happening all over – what was wrong with him?
“Sir. I would never normally defy one of your orders, but I feel that in this case there are exceptional circumstances.”
At once, the Captain sat up straight. Was it the Germans? Were they finally here? He was ready, he had been born ready, he was going to…But Havers was smiling as he closed the door behind him. “It’s this cake.” He held out a plate, which held a hunk of sponge, clumsily iced in white, and a fork. “This cake is exceptional circumstances.”
“Oh.” As the plate landed on his desk, the Captain felt he could have cried. Pull yourself together. It’s just cake…and yet it meant the world. “Ah. Well. You really didn’t have to – er. Thank you. You must be missing a good time.”
Havers shrugged. “Ah. I’m not twenty-one anymore. Besides…” He paused. “It’s not the same without you.” As soon as the words left his lips, those eyes flicked down to the floor.
Why? Why did he have to make it worse? The Captain forced a smile. “That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m hardly a party person. Much better off up here, where I’m useful.”
When Havers looked up, illuminated in the glow of the gas lamps, the Captain could have swooned like a maiden. By God, he was so handsome that it ached to look at him. “Just wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t forgotten.” Havers was saying, his tone light. Another pause. For a long moment, he simply looked back at the Captain, an unreadable expression on his face. At long last, he appeared to give up. “Goodnight, then.” With a shy, final smile, he made to leave.
Oh, he was so gentle. The Captain’s eyes fell upon the shadow Havers cast on the old wallpaper as he approached the door. For God’s sake, he even loved that.
Havers was here, he had come to see him, and for a few moments, he was his. Oh, damn it. Damn it all. There was still room in the Captain’s heart for more stolen moments.
“Er! I say, Havers!” he called. At once, the man turned, those dark eyes flashing in the lamplight. Capturing this image, as if his eyes were cameras, the Captain leaned forward and grabbed the fork. “This is far too much for me.” Using the side, he cut the cake into two halves, took one, and pushed the plate with the larger half towards Havers. “I did say you could have mine.”
It wasn’t the lamplight that brightened Havers’ eyes now. “Thank you for indulging my sweet tooth.” he grinned, accepting the plate. “It nearly killed me to give it to you.”
For a long moment, they sat in silence, eating the birthday cake. It wasn’t bad, the Captain thought, as he chewed. Not a patch on how he remembered cakes prior to rationing, but it was soft, and it was sweet. As sweet at the company. Emboldened by his second visit of the evening, the Captain allowed himself to gaze at Havers for a few seconds at a time. He had spilled a few crumbs on his collar. Ordinarily, such unkemptness in uniform would have infuriated the Captain – he had reprimanded his men for a lot less. But now, he simply smiled to himself, taking another mental image. It was funny how Havers brought out his own gentleness.
Sharing cake with Havers, as Glenn Miller drifted up the stairs, was the sweetest thing that had happened to him in his whole life. Damn it, it was a celebration, after all. Young Fitzclarence's birthday…Fitzwarren? Fitzgerald. That was it. Suddenly, everyone outside of his office seemed a thousand miles away. Havers was here, Havers was all that mattered, and he had yet more he wanted to share.
“What about a little something to cut the sweetness, hm?” With a wicked smile, the Captain reached down into his desk drawer, and produced a bottle full of glistening amber liquid. "In light of my head, we'll call this medicinal."
Havers gazed in surprise at the whisky bottle, and then at the Captain – before giving a strangled laugh. “How long have you been holding onto that?”
“Since January 1935.” the Captain reported, fishing for glasses. “Always prepared.”
“I don’t know how you can possibly remember these things.” Havers giggled – and to his surprise, the Captain found that he was chuckling too. And so, feeling like the mischievous schoolboy he had never been, he poured two measures.
“To victory.” he toasted solemnly. “To King and Country.”
“To victory.” Havers drank – and almost choked. “Oh God, how humiliating.”
“No, no, this one has a particular kick to it.” The Captain reassured him, even thought it didn't. He still could not believe it. Havers, in his office, smiling at him in the lamplight, drinking with him, as if they were friends…In his darkest moments, he would always have this. Beaming to himself, he knocked back his own measure with ease, chewing it appreciatively in the comfortable silence. It was strong stuff, but delicious. Having finished, he poured a second measure for each of them. “No pressure.”
“Thanks.” Havers took a much more cautious sip. “I should go easy - there were quite a lot of drinks at the party. Nothing this good, of course - besides, I don't really like beer. Rum's my drink of choice."
“That is hardly surprising. I figured you’d enjoy something sweet.” The Captain smiled, a broad, easy smile, which was returned. God, everything suddenly felt so simple. “Mine's a bitter shandy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The second measure had already disappeared. Well, almost. He could blame that, and the earlier head injury, for what was about to come out of his mouth. “Havers? May I confess something?”
“Of course.” Those eyes, so dark, so without judgement, regarded him with a polite curiosity.
“I can’t tell you how much it means that you have made such an effort to include me.”
Havers paused. He drank the new glass to the bottom. “It’s not an effort.”
“I mean it.” The whisky had not yet shielded him from embarrassment. As such, the Captain stood up, and wandered over to the window, before he delivered his next sentence. “It’s…not easy for me to socialise. I’m not sure why I am so awkward – it’s been this way since I was a boy. The other children learned to leave me alone pretty quickly. So thank you…for not leaving me alone.” He dared turn back, and his gaze met those dark, robin-bright eyes, that regarded him with such warmth, such quiet gentleness. Good Lord, he was perfect. “Even though I am a grumpy old walrus.”
For a moment, Havers simply gazed back. Then, with a smirk: “Come on. You’re not that old.”
The warm glow that filled the Captain’s chest had nothing to do with the whisky, although he had just finished his glass. “Goodness, the moon is bright tonight…” Indeed, he could see the dark, sprawling grounds of Button House relatively well, the spreading fields, the shapes of the trees, the old stone walls and hedgerows. It was quite beautiful here, really. He had never appreciated his stationing more than in that moment. A beautiful night, beautiful surroundings, and beautiful –
“Good Lord!” the Captain exclaimed.
“What is it?”
“Why, I do believe there is a long-eared owl flying across the garden!” He pressed himself to the glass, shielding his eyes from the light to get a better view.
“Really?” The sound of boots on the floorboards as Havers hurried over to the window, leaning in beside him to peer into the garden. “Where?”
“Look at her go!” The Captain was in heaven. “Glorious form! Did you know they have a wingspan of nearly a metre? Ah, there she goes, back into the trees. Do you see? Over there.”
“Oh! Dear God, look at that!”
“I mean, it's Christmas, it's Christmas morning! What a magnificent beast! Did you know they’ve been known to eat small birds when mice and voles are scarce?”
“Really?” There was a laugh hiding in Havers' tone. "Who'd have thought it?"
The Captain turned to see if Havers was making fun of him - but instead, he found nothing but that same, indulgent smile. That's so...you.
Downstairs, they were playing Moonlight Serenade.
It was at this moment that the Captain realised just how close Havers was. Indeed, he did not recall a time when they had ever been so close. He shivered. “Did…” he stammered. “Did you know they have the most melancholy hoot? It sounds like they’re saying “Who? Who?”. Very distinctive. It's the tawny owls who make the classic too-wit too-woo!” For God's sake, why was he making owl noises?
“How interesting.” Those eyes, those bright, gentle eyes, gazing into his. God. God, he was close.
"Yes. Yes. Er. Very interesting indeed. Did – did you know that – that the long-eared owl – they – they..." The rest of the Captain's words dried in his throat. He couldn't breathe - and yet, Havers was less than a breath away. He could feel nothing but his heart in his throat, hear nothing but blood beating in his ears, see nothing but the gap between them closing by the second. This was it. This was reaching for something. This was a moment arriving. This was…
Too far.
As if by electric shock, both men sprung backward, the Captain almost colliding with a nearby chair. Every nerve in his body had been shot to ribbons. In front of him, huge, dark eyes looked back into his, reflecting that same terror. God. Oh God. What to do? Had the door been closed?
“-Goodnight, sir.”
Before the Captain could blink, before he could think, before he could cry out in protest – Havers was already gone, letting the door slam shut behind him. The Captain was left, breathless, not with a moment, not with sweet memories - but with dread.