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viking-raider · 3 months

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Salt in Our Wounds - Chapter III

Summary-> Things continue to grow more complicated for you with your charge. In more than one way. But there are some bright spots.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 6.5k

Chapters-> I II

Warnings-> PG: Language, Deception, References to WWII

Inspiration-> Since my favorite demon, @littlefreya, asked so nicely. The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

Author’s Note-> I hope you enjoy! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

-> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’ Ao3-> Dragon_Dweller

With Edmund back at his own home, your father asleep in his chair and the dinner dishes washed, then put away, you rubbed at your face, finally feeling the exhaustion of the day bear down on you. Your muscles were sore and you had a throbbing headache behind your eyes.

But your day wasn't quite over yet.

You filled a glass with water and brought it downstairs, in the off chance your guest woke up in the night, thirsty. The lanterns had been turned down low and the electric light had been turned off, in the cellar room, you thought nothing of it as you entered. Until you noticed the camp bed was empty.

“Oh-” You gasped, eyes wide with surprise, when you felt a warm and strong palm close around your mouth, muffling the startled scream you let out, the glass of water slipping from your fingers and shattering on the hard packed, dirt floor, splashing over your slippers.

“Calm yourself.” A deep, British accent rumbled low in your ear, whiskers tickling your skin. “I'm not going to hurt you. But you are going to answer my questions.” He said, pulling you backwards with him as he moved towards the cellar door, listening for any noise from the house upstairs, before pulling the door closed. “I'm going to remove my hand.”

“Don't make me regret it, love.”

Gulping thickly, stomach twisted in sick knots, you nodded in reply. He slowly removed his hand, in preparation of you crying out for help, but you were too frightened to make a peep. Nodding his head, he moved around you, gingerly holding a hand to his wound.

“Where am I?” He asked, piercing you with his stunning blue eyes. “Come now.” He cooed, when you continued to gawk at him, reaching up with his free hand to gently pinch your chin between his thumb and fingers, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smile.

“You're in the village of Saint-Thurney.” You blurted out, biting the inside of your cheek. “Just off the coast of the English Channel.”

“We're still in France?” He asked, his brows drawing together.

“Ye-yes.” You stuttered, blinking at him.

“You don't sound French.” He said, a light of deep suspicion filling his eyes as he regarded you more closely.

“Well, that's because I'm not.” You replied, frowning back at him. “My family and I moved here for a quieter life, before all this war nonsense broke out.” You explained, watching the beads of sweat on his forehead begin to drip down the edge of his nose. “You need to sit down, before you pass out.” You told him, reaching up to close your hand around the wrist of the hand he still held your chin with.

“I'm fine.” He dismissed you, despite becoming a bit pale.

“No, you're not.” You snapped at him, concerned. “You've been shot and washed ashore, with a fever.” You scolded him, pulling his hand away from your face and attempted to tug him over to the bed, but couldn't budge his large frame.

“Why are you helping me?” He asked, narrowing his eyes at you. “I could be the enemy, a collaborator, or at the least a sympathizer. For all you know, that's why I was shot.”

You looked him over, studying him. “You could be.” You nodded, though your gut still felt he wasn't. “But what I do know is you're injured and sick. I can't let you go untended for it.”

“You're a strange woman.” He chuckled, smirking at you.

“And you're a strange man that washed up on my beach.” You countered, cocking a brow at him.

“I'm Gus.” He offered his name, feeling a small measure of trust in you.

“It's been eventful, Gus.” You replied, then offered your own name to him. “Please, you're pale and sweating quite profusely. I don't want you to pass out.” You begged him, motioning to the bed.

Gus lifted an amused eyebrow at you for a second, before humoring you and sitting down in the chair. “How far is your little town from Dieppe?” He asked, grimacing at the discomfort.

“I'm not all that sure. All I know is we're north of it.” You replied, shaking your head. “Um, give me a moment.” You said, turning to go back upstairs, but Gus's hand shot out to grab your wrist, halting you. “I'm just going upstairs to grab one of the maps my father has in the sitting room. He's been tracking some of the German's movements.”

“Has he now?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “My father was a soldier in the Great War, for the British Empire. It cost him dearly, so I would kindly ask you to wipe that assumption off your face.” You hissed at him, not liking the glint in Gus's orbs.

“My apologies, my lady.” He replied, tipping his head forward. “I meant no offense.” He tried to assure you, letting go of your wrist.

Silently going out, you crept up the stairs, wincing as the ancient wood steps creaked beneath your tiptoes. The flames in the fireplace were just high enough to keep the sitting room warm, while only casting a strong enough glow you could just see the outline of everything to navigate by. Your father sat slumped in his armchair, stocking feet propped up on an ottoman and his blanket tucked around his softly pudgy middle.

You couldn't stop the sweet smile that pulled on your lips as you stopped a short distance from him, listening to his rough snores, the flickering flames catching on the glass of his glasses. Reaching out, you slowly and gently removed them from his face, folding and tucking them into the front pocket of his pajamas; where he could find them in the morning. Turning your attention back to your task, you made your way over to the roll top desk your father kept his maps in, rifling through them for one that wasn't marked up with the battle fronts and supply lines. You knew your father would inquire as to where it was, if you took one of those.

Finding a new map, rolled up and held closed with an elastic band, you slowly pulled it out of the stack, shooting a look over your shoulder as your father snorted in his sleep suddenly, but didn't stir. Letting out a sigh and closing the desk, you scurried out of the sitting room, pausing momentarily to grab your broom and dustpan to sweep up the shards of the glass you had dropped.

“Here.” You held out the rolled up map to Gus, returning to the cellar and finding him still sitting where you left him.

“Thank you.” He nodded, taking it.

Nodding back, you set the dust pan down on the floor and set about sweeping up your mess, while Gus removed the elastic band and spread the map out on the table, turning up the oil lamp that was beside it. Squinting at the small print names of towns, villages and cities along the coast, in search of the seaport of Dieppe in the Normandy region of Northern France. Tapping his index finger against it, he traced his other pointer finger up until he found Saint-Thurney, in the region of Hauts-de-France, letting out a growling hum as he did.

“Did you find it?” You asked, bent as you corralled the broken glass pieces into the metal dust pan.

“Aye, I did.” Gus replied, pushing his jaw forward, lips pursed in agitation. “We're eighty-four kilometers north of it.”

“Is that where you were injured?” You asked, standing back up, clapping your hands together to dust them off. “Off the coast of Dieppe?”

Gus's eyes shot up to you, guarded and suspicious.

“I found you washed ashore. So, unless you were shot, then driven eighty some kilometers from Dieppe and dumped on our beach, which is awfully out of the way to get rid of someone. Wartime or no. You had to either be near the Channel when it happened or already in the Channel.”

The suspicion in his eyes slowly melted into a look of impressed understanding. “You're very smart and forward, for a young lady.” He chuckled, smirking at you, but his gaze was still guarded as he twisted the end of his mustache.

“I was primarily raised by my father and brother, mostly my brother. So, my lady-like manners aren't as refined as they should be.” You confessed, though there was no apology in your voice or expression. “And I'm not quite a young lady, either.”

“I surely doubt you're not an old maid.” Gus remarked, cocking a brow as his eyes moved over you. “You can't be more than-” He pressed his lips together. “Twenty-six.”

“Flattery.” You giggled, a warmth blooming in your cheeks. “And you are trying to change the subject.”

Gus's smirk turned smug and devilish. “Quite.” He nodded, his brow twitching slightly. “I was injured in Dieppe. The circumstances are--” He paused, rubbing sweaty temples for a moment. “Fuzzy.”

“Are you in pain?” You asked, frowning at him, concerned by the pale flush to his face and the sweat still dripping down his face.

“I am.”

You grabbed the cloth from where it laid on the camp bed and used it to gently dab at his forehead and the sides of his neck. “You should lay back down, Gus.” You cooed at him, brushing a damp curl off his forehead. “I can get one of the morphine tablets Dr. Tremblay left for you.” You said, motioning to the tawny-colored bottle on the table.

Sitting quietly for a long time, Gus finally nodded and moved over to the bed, groaning and hissing as the movement pulled on his wound and stitches. You half covered him, before heading back upstairs for a fresh glass of water.

“Here.” You said quietly, handing over the water and took one of the round, white tablets out of the medicine bottle.

“Thank you.” He nodded at you, popping it in his mouth and chugging down most of the water.

“Are you hungry at all?” You inquired, biting your lip. “I have some food left over from dinner.” You told him, turning your upper body towards the door. “It's not much, but it's something on your stomach.”

“No, thanks.” Gus answered, letting his eyes fall shut. “I don't have an appetite just now.”

“All right.” You nodded, biting your lip. “I'll let you rest then. I'll come and see you in the morning.” You assured him, moving towards the door.

“Thank you.” Gus called out to you. “For what you're doing.” He elaborated, as you paused. “Most people during these times would have just left me to die or alerted the authorities. Let alone take me into their home, called a doctor and tended to me.”

You smiled, chuckling softly, before quipping. “Well, I believe we've established I'm no ordinary woman.”

“True enough.” He snorted back, feeling the drowsiness of the morphine start to seep into his body.

“Good night.” You bid him.

“Night.” Gus mumbled back, dozing off.

Upon waking the next morning, you laid in bed for a long while, listening to the distant rush of waves crashing on the shore and excited calls of birds. The day before felt surreal and part of you wondered if the events had actually happened. Had you truly found a wounded man washed up on your favorite beach, during wartime? Did you and your brother honestly sneak him into your home, so you could try and save him?

“Did we?” You asked the streaks of sunlight coming through the window beside your bed.

There was a knock on your door, breaking you free of your thoughts.

“Yes?” You called out, rubbing at your face and sitting up.

“Are you decent?” Edmund's voice called back.

Sighing, reality crashing back around you. “One moment!” You scurried out of bed and grabbed your robe off the back of the chair, securing it on, before you opened the door for your brother. “Good morning.” You greeted him.

“He is awake.” He replied under his breath.

“Oh yes, he is awake.” You nodded, biting your lip, remembering your interaction with Gus the night before. “He woke up a couple of hours after dinner.” You explained to Edmund.

“Why didn't you come and get me!” He hissed, glancing over his shoulder, towards the stairs, worried your father would hear.

“I—it honestly hadn't occurred to me at the moment, Edmund.” You told him, biting your lip.

“Didn't occur to you! He could have harmed you and Pops!” He scolded you, eye twitching with pent up anger. “I could have come over this morning to your dead-”

“Edmund, calm yourself.” You cut him off, watching the vein in his temple start to bulge. “He didn't harm me. He didn't even leave the cellar. What he did was startle me, when I found him out of the cot. Beyond that, he was quite courteous. Secretive and strange, but nothing but a gentleman.” You assured your brother. “I'm guessing you went down to look at him?” You asked, looking up at him.

“Yeah, I did. Found him sitting up, staring at a map.”

“Oh, the stubbornness of men!” You huffed, shoving Edmund away from your door and closing it, rushing to get dressed. “I'll get breakfast going, if you want any. I'm sure Willa hasn't bothered, since it's not noon yet and she's not graced the living.” You said, coming back out in a whirlwind, Edmund still standing in the hallway.

“Just wait for me in the kitchen.”

“I'm not leaving you alone with that man.” Edmund huffed at you, close on your heels as you went downstairs.

“Good morning, Papa!” You sang out, the sound of the radio reaching you from the sitting room, your father listening intently to it.

“Morning, Peanut!” He replied, not looking up at you.

Smiling, you turned and went downstairs, into the cellar. “Good morning, Gus.” You smirked at his hunched back, a hint of sarcasm in your eyes.

“Morning.” Gus replied, leaning back in his chair to regard you. “Has my nurse come to pester me?” He asked, chuckling, amused at the glint of your glare.

“I have.” You nodded, reaching out and brushing the stray curl aside to rest your hand on his forehead, feeling the heat in his skin. “You're not as warm as you were last night.” You commented, letting your hand drop. “So, your fever is dropping. But I still need to give you the shot Dr. Tremblay ordered yesterday.”

“Right.” Gus nodded, curling his fingers around the hem of his shirt, to pull it off.

“Mm-mm.” You hummed at him, shaking your head.

“What?” He frowned at you.

“Thigh.” You smirked at him, grabbing the antibiotic vial and syringe that Tremblay left behind for you.

“Explains why I don't have any trousers on.” Gus snorted, his blue eyes catching Edmund's, which were ablaze with protective suspicion. “Your bodyguard.” He asked, a sharp edge of wit in his voice.

“Brothers are like that.” You smiled, moving in front of Gus.

“So, not your husband then.” He inquired, meeting your eye.

“Ew.” You giggled, shaking your head, tugging up one side of his boxers. “No offense, Edmund.” You added, biting your lip as you gently pinched the thick muscle at the top of his thigh.

“None taken, Peanut.” Edmund replied, scowling at Gus.

“Why don't you go upstairs, Captain?” You suggested to Edmund, carefully injecting the needle. “We're all right down here.” You said, biting your lip in concentration as you pushed the plunger down.

Edmund lingered for a minute, before turning on his boot heels and storming back upstairs, making a ruckus as he did.

“I'm sorry about him.” You said to Gus, removing the needle and setting it aside. “It's just that he's very protective.”

“And I'm just some strange man, that washed ashore on your beach, that's now holed up in your basement.” Gus chuckled, nodding his head in understanding, but frowned at you. “You called him, Captain. But he's not in the military, is he?”

You drew a deep breath, held it for a second with a thoughtful look on your face, before sighing. “No, Edmund isn't. He tried to join the military when the war broke out, but they turned him away.” You explained to him, your heart sore for your brother.

Edmund was loyal, steadfast and capable. He was quite patriotic as well, for the home you had come from and the home you had made in France. Even when he couldn't serve for them on the front lines, or even behind the lines. You wished with all your heart Edmund could march in those neat lines, in a snappy uniform, to officially hold the rank of Captain. Knowing the void it filled in him. But due to an unfortunate medical condition, no branch of the military would have him, in even a desk job.

“Why wouldn't they take him?” Gus asked, frowning with confusion. “He looks more than able.” He commented, having seen Edmund's lean and muscular body.

“Oh yes, bodily he is. Mentally as well.” You agreed, fussing with the fabric of your skirt. “But it's his eyes that are the issue.” You licked your lips and looked up at Gus. “He has an eye condition, Retinitis Pigmentosa. It causes you to lose your vision over time. It starts with your night vision, then your peripheral vision, before you go blind completely.”

“Currently, Eddie has no night vision to speak of and his side vision is becoming blurry. So, he's kept his trade as a carpenter.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Gus said, his eyes soft on you. “Can I ask why you call him Captain?”

You giggled quietly, a fond memory coming to mind. “Our father was a Major, in the Great War, and had a good many metals for it.” You explained to him, a distant look in your eye. “Among other things.” You mumbled, quietly. “Edmund loved his memorabilia as a child and would wear them all the time, showing them off to anybody and everybody that would look and listen to how our father got them.” You laughed, smiling. “Our father had given Edmund one of his patches, the one that had once identified him as a Captain.” You paused, biting your lip and furrowing your brow.

“Mother left when I was five and Edmund was fifteen. I don't remember much of that day, other than my father being in one of his fits and Edmund sending me next door for a while. When he came back to get me, he told me it was just going to be us now. But not to worry, he was the Captain of the house and he'd make sure everything would be all right.”

“You took to calling him Captain, as a nickname.” Gus grinned, understanding and touched.

“Mmhm.” You nodded, somber. “We refer to our father as Major, from time to time as well.”

“Well, that'll make things awkward, while I'm your guest.” Gus laughed, smirking at you.

“Why's that?” You frowned at him.

Gus sighed, his face turning to an expression of seriousness. “I'm a Major in the British Army.” He confessed to you, flexing his fingers.

“So, you are on our side.” You replied, the corners of your lips twitching with relief to know you were right about him.

“What side would that be?” He asked, his eyes squinting slightly.

“Well, we're not holding you hostage, Major. We're hiding you from the German patrol in our village, that has already almost caught us with you once, to start with.” You told him, bluntly. “While tending to your wound.” You said, pointing to the hole in his shirt. “So, we're on your side. Which is just unfortunately occupied.”

“There's a German patrol post here?” Gus asked, tensing.

“Yes. An annoying one at that.”

“Annoying how?”

“It was a very small patrol, when they first gained control of France. Perhaps fifteen of them.” You explained, shrugging your shoulders. “But three months ago, half of the main German Patrol moved from Rue to here. You can fit Saint-Thurney in part of Rue. We don't know why they've moved. It's been kept hushed and with that hush an increase in their patrols around town. It was a miracle I found you on the beach before they did.”

“It would seem so.” Gus nodded, troubled.

“Do you recall anything of your ordeal?” You asked, frowning at him. “How you got injured? Or into the water?”

Gus carded a hand through his nest of curls, shaking his head. “The last thing I recall was being with my men in Dieppe. Everything after that is still fuzzy and dark.”

“Perhaps you were ambushed?” You bit your lip, knowing you were reaching.

“It's possible.” He sighed, before shrugging his shoulders. “I'm sure it'll come back to me.”

“I'm sure it will.” You answered, offering him a soft smile. “Until then, I should head back upstairs and start breakfast.” You sighed, moving towards the door. “Would you like some coffee or tea?” You offered, politely.

“Coffee would be nice, thank you.” Gus replied, with a kind tilt of his head.

“Coming right down.” You smirked, scurrying back upstairs.

“Are you all right?” Edmund asked as you entered the kitchen.

“I'm fine, Eddie.” You sighed, shaking your head at him. “You don't have anything to worry about with him. He's ever the gentleman you are.” You told him, opening the pantry door and removing your apron off the hook, tying it around you. “Did you go down to the store and get the supplies, like I asked last night?”

“Yes.” Edmund grunted, fetching the small crate from by the door. “Remi added a bit more tea leaves. Said, he knows how much you love your cuppas.” He informed you, setting the crate on the kitchen counter.

“What a sweetheart.” You giggled, plucking the brown paper bag of loose tea leaves out of the supplies and dropped it beside the stove, before digging through for the coffee grounds. “We need--” You tilted your head back, cocking a brow at your father for a second, before looking at Edmund. “To get our guest, some clothing.”

“Clothes.” Edmund snapped at you, brows creasing so deeply, they almost touched.

“Well, his shirt has a hole in it.” You scolded your brother, eyes rolling. “And you can tell by looking at them, that they're not clothing anyone from around here would wear.”

“Who's going to see him?” He argued further.

“What if the Patrol does one of their searches?” You countered, giving him a smug look.

“That's what the hidden door and the damn shelves are for, Peanut!” He huffed at you. “To hide him, so if the Patrol comes searching the houses, they won't find him.”

“Still, it's rude, Edmund.” You huffed, filling your tea pot and putting it on the stove to boil. “He can't stay down there in filthy clothing.”

Edmund rubbed his face. “Fine.” He sighed, giving in. “I'll find him something to wear. If it'll make you so happy.”

“It will.” You answered, smirking at him. “It's only the polite thing to do, and you know it.”

“Of course, my dear sister.” He huffed, playfully rolling his eyes at you, before kissing your cheek. “I'll be back for breakfast. I made a call to Duprée for some lumber, to start building our guest's paradise downstairs.”

“All right, it should be done by then.” You nodded, patting him gently on the chest.

Gus sipped at the coffee you had kindly brewed for him. You had even brought him a few books from the bookcases in the sitting room, so he had something to occupy his time, other than staring at the map. He looked at the covers of Gulliver's Travels, the Great Gatsby, the Pickwick Papers and Of Mice and Men, before picking up the latter. Thumbing it open to the first page, he rested back in his seat, finding it more comfortable than the camp bed to recline in.

He hadn't gotten far into the chapter, before hearing footsteps coming back down the basement stairs and cast a glance through the half open cellar door, catching sight of Edmund coming down, with several boards on his shoulder. Gus folded the corner of his page and set the book aside, pushing himself up with a muffled groan.

“Do you want some help with that?” He asked, stopping short of the stairs.

“Nope.” Edmund replied, reaching the bottom. “I'm more than positive, if you look at these boards sideways, my sister will come down here and beat the both of us.” He said, his voice humorless, but Gus laughed anyway.

“I'm sure you're right.” He smirked, glancing up the stairs, hearing the bumps and clinks coming from the kitchen. “She's a gentle, but firm, nurse.”

“That she is.” Your brother agreed, setting the boards down to one side of the room and shrugging his shoulders. “My father and I made sure she had her manners, but she never let anyone boss or bully her around.” He said, glancing at Gus for a moment.

“That's good.” Gus replied, catching Edmund's eye. “People can be quite harsh in this world. Especially to young ladies.”

Edmund nodded, then went back upstairs for the rest of the wood and his tools. He also brought down a bag. “My sister insisted on me bringing you these.” He said, setting the bag beside Gus, who was seated back in his chair, having returned to his book and cooling cup of coffee.

Frowning and resting the book on his knee, Gus reached into the bag, grabbing the first thing inside. He pulled out a teal colored cable knit jumper. “Oh.” He cooed, brows going up as he nodded.

“That's very kind. Thank you.”

“Mmhm.” Edmund grunted, leaving him to change and get back to his work.

Gus stood, closing the cellar door the rest of the way, and shed his tattered shirt, replacing it for the jumper, the wool rough on his skin. He rummaged through the bag, finding fresh underwear, pants, socks and shoes. Even a pair of pajamas! He stripped and put on the clean clothes and felt a sight better for it. His old shirt and boxers still smelled of the sea and made his skin itch.

A knock sounded on the door, as he was pulling on the socks and boots.

“Come!”

“Oh!” You started, but smiled at him. “I see my brother managed to do what I asked of him.” You said, a plate of food balanced in one hand.

“He did.” Gus nodded, smirking up at you. “Thank you. It was kind of you to think of it.”

“Of course.” You replied shyly, eyes darting away for a second. “I brought you breakfast.” You quickly recovered, holding the plate out to him, then removed utensils from the pocket of your apron. “Do you need a refill on your coffee?”

“It could use a warming up.” He picked his cup up and turned it over to your awaiting hand.

“Back in a snap.” You chirped. “Are you ready for your breakfast, Edmund?” You asked, on the way to the kitchen, pausing to watch him pull a pencil from behind his ear and strike a mark on a board he was measuring, on two saw-horses.

“Just bring me down a plate.” Edmund answered, too distracted to look up at you as he adjusted his measuring tape. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“All right.” You nodded, knowing that set in his shoulders.

Going back to the kitchen, you pour Gus's cold coffee down the sink, pull a cup down for Edmund, then turn towards the percolator that rested on the counter. Removing the lid, you pulled out the metal coffee basket and carried it out to the small garden you had, just like Edmund and Willa, where you tapped the damp, used coffee grounds into your compost bin.

The percolator set up for a fresh pot of coffee, you grabbed one of the plates sitting on the kitchen table to portion out the eggs, toast and sausage on it. You missed having a fruit with your breakfast, but with supplies what they were and being rationed, fresh produce were spares. But, the marmalades you were able to get periodically helped dull the longing.

For a little while, at least.

“Papa, do you want marmalade or butter on your toast?” You called out, plucking his piece of blackened toast out of the toaster oven, just how he liked it.

It was the same with his meat as well. Mael would have his steak, pork chops and every other type of meat blacker than shoe polish. You hadn't understood why, when you began cooking for your family. But Edmund had explained it to you one night, after your father complained three times his lamp chop wasn't done enough, though you were beginning to worry there would be nothing left of it, by the time you did get it where he liked it. Apparently, growing up his mother could never properly cook meat, either under-cooking it or burning it to a crisp.

“Do we have any marmalade left?” He called back.

“We do!” You replied, opening the refrigerator, to pull out the two small, glass jars of Rose's marmalade. “We have a tiny bit of the Strawberry left and Remi sent over some Ginger this morning.” You informed him, reading the label.

“I'll have Ginger then, Peanut.”

Nodding, you put the Strawberry back and muscled open the Ginger, spreading it over his toast and getting some on your fingers as you worked it to the edges. Giving a couple of your fingers a cheeky lick, humming at the sweet, but warm and spicy stickiness on them, you brought your father's food over to him, kissing the top of his balding head.

“Any movement on the Eastern Front, Major?” You inquired, cocking your head at the map he had spread out on a folding table he set up in front of his chair.

He had been listening to the radio about current movements, or mostly lack thereof, on the bloody fighting between the Axis powers and Soviet Union. His map was marked with different colored pencils and he had some sort of symbol system set up for himself to follow, that you hadn't fully figured out. What you did know was the Red and Black lines were the Russians and their Allies. Blue and Green were the Axis. The Skulls, you learned very early on, were the dead zones, where neither side gained or lost any ground, no matter what they did. Crosses were some of the heaviest casualties, and Arrows were meant to show any movement either side managed to make. But there were several others you and Edmund just couldn't make heads or tails out of.

Neither of you wished to ask either, in fear it might cause him to go into a tirade. So, simple questions were always the best.

“None, Peanut.” Mael replied, as he leaned forward with a red pencil and added a new Cross somewhere on the Northern edge of the Front, making your stomach sink.

You swallowed the hard lump in your throat. “I'm glad to hear it.” You rasped, squeezing his shoulder, before numbly returning to the kitchen, putting your plate back into the cabinet, appetite ruined.

“Dinner was delicious.” Gus commented, wiping up the remnants of the stew you had simmered throughout the day with his last bite of bread, popping it into his mouth with a complimentary moan.

“I'm glad you think so.” You smiled, holding your hand out for his bowl. “Um...” You floundered for a moment, pivoting on your hips as you glanced around. “I put clean towels in the bathroom upstairs, if you'd like to go up and take a shower. Edmund is back home with his wife. My father is asleep and it's almost curfew for the village.”

“I would greatly appreciate some time under the hot spray of a showerhead.” He replied, looking up at you, his eyes soft.

“It's all yours then.” You nodded, moving towards the door. “When you're ready for it.”

“I'll be up presently.” He cooed, standing gingerly, grabbing the pajamas that you and Edmund had supplied him.

Tossing the garments over his shoulder, Gus headed upstairs, mindful not to make boards creak as little as possible. Popping his head out the basement door, he saw your father dozing in his armchair, chin resting on his chest with his glasses balanced perilously on the tip of his nose. He heard a clink and moved forward a step, discovering you at the sink, washing his bowl and spoon.

“Is that a mouse, I hear?” You teased, glancing at him with a smirk.

“More the size of a rat.” Gus jested back, standing beside the kitchen table.

You giggled aloud for a second, before you covered it and looked over at your father. “I'll show you upstairs to the bathroom.” You said, drying your hands and motioned to the stairs. “How's your wound feeling?” You asked, following him up, glancing at the spot of his back where you knew his stitches were.

“Sore.” He sighed, pausing at the top to look at you. “That doctor makes a tight stitch.” He quipped, turning to follow you down the hallway.

“Better a tight stitch than a gaping wound.” You joked back, pushing open one of the doors and stepping aside for him.

“True enough, my darling.” Gus smirked, meeting your eye for a long moment, seeing the shy, sheepishness creep into your eyes and your bottom lip get caught between your teeth.”Thank you for the use of your restroom.”

“Of course.” You nodded, glancing away from him, then scurried back downstairs.

You pulled a clean fitted sheet and pillowcase out of a cabinet, the aroma of the laundry soap on the fabric greeting your nose as you hugged them to your chest. Edmund had managed to complete a more suitable and sturdy bed for Gus on his day of work, bringing over the mattress from his and Willa's guest room to top it. So, while Gus allowed himself the comforting luxury of washing up and getting ready for bed, you went down and dressed it for him. Sure the feeling of clean clothes on clean skin would help him get an extra good night's sleep.

“There, all ready for him.” You grinned, fluffing his pillowcase, then went back up to finish your other chores, before it was time for you to go off to bed. “Shoot.” You snapped, finding your father's chair empty and darted upstairs, to find him.

You reached the top of the stairs as your father came out of his room and Gus was exiting the bathroom in the gray striped pajamas, a towel draped around his neck. Your father caught sight of you first, seeing the wild and startled look in your eyes, his grayed brows wrinkling with confusion for a half-second, until he finally noticed Gus, who stood frozen in the bathroom doorway.

“Who in God's name is this man!” Mael snapped, his coffee-colored eyes hardening with alert outrage.

��He's-!” You floundered, head whipping between the two men. “He's—um..”

“I work for your son.” Gus answered calmly, his eyes giving you a quick look of knowing, instilling you with a burst of encouragement.

“Yes, Papa.” You nodded at Gus, your head slowly turning to your father, still bobbing. “He's helping Edmund build the shelves downstairs and with the repairs around the house.” You elaborated to him, smirking. “He's from the next village over though, and the curfew was set before he could head back home. So, Eddie and I suggested he stay here. He was just showering before heading off to bed.”

Mael squinted at Gus, his jaw moving gently side to side as he chewed on his lip.

“Papa, you should be off to bed.” You cooed at him, softly, resting your hand on his arm. “It's late.” You hoped to guide him back downstairs to his chair and get Gus out of his sight, at least until you talked to Edmund in the morning. “How do hotcakes sound for breakfast tomorrow?” You hummed, glancing back at Gus, who winked at you.

“Good, I suppose, Peanut.” Your father answered, only semi-distracted away from the stranger he found in his home.

“All right.” You smiled, tucking his blanket around him and lifting his legs to slide the ottoman under his feet. “I'll have some toasty and buttery, hot cakes for you, in the morning.” You whispered, kissing his forehead and watching him fall asleep, then rushed back upstairs. “I am so sorry, Gus! I didn't expect him to get up. He usually calls for me, if he wants something from his room.” You apologized, wringing your hands.

“No, no!” Gus shook his head, reaching out and grasping your hands. “This is your home and you have nothing to be sorry for. I'm sorry, I've thrown you and your family into such disarray.”

“It's all right.” You gulped, feeling the heavy warmth of his rough hands against your skin. “These are chaotic times, we're in.” You told him, heart fluttering. “We should get to bed, by the way. Tomorrow comes early.”

“Indeed it does.” He agreed, his skin tingling. “Especially, for the help.” He joked, lightly.

You chuckled back, dropping your eyes to the hallway runner. “I'll have to let Edmund in on that bit of information, when he comes over and before our father gets a hold of him.” You said, imagining how that conversation was going to go.

“Well, I'll wish you a good night.” Gus said, dropping his hands from yours, but inclined his head forward. “Peanut.” He added, with a playful wink, then excused himself.

Your cheeks blazed as you stood in the hallway, the heat of Gus's touch still lingering on your skin and the ring of him calling you by your nickname in your ears. It took a long moment for you to recover enough to resume your tasks and go to bed.

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