Chapter Text
Luck had been on George and Clayton’s side.
While Nicholas had been easy to sway, Darryl had remained suspicious of the situation for longer but eventually appeared to give in. Once George and Clayton were back to full strength they had been allowed to return home, and the two of them hadn’t questioned doing that together - starting afresh far, far away.
They had collected the belongings that had meant something to them, packed their bags, and sold anything that was left. The money they had scraped together was enough for the two of them to journey to France and buy a small plot of land. A new life was what they needed, to escape the world that they had lived in before and to let themselves start over. George couldn’t imagine going back to inventing: his life before tainted by the memories of those horrifying few days. While he had fallen for Clayton, he couldn’t deny the trauma of the experience. Clayton himself was relieved to be away from England - away from the life that he had led before, able to start over and live a life of kindness, of hard work, of love . It was difficult at first, regret filling his every waking hour for months on end, but George had been by his side through it all, there to listen as he spoke of his childhood - the cruelties of his parents and peers, the darkness of the world that had shaped him into the man he had been - and to hold him as he cried for the things that he had done. George helped to build him back up, and Clayton could never be more thankful.
Hidden away in the small corner of the French countryside, focusing on each other, their crops and their cattle, it had been easy to avoid the changing of the world around them. Isolated in their own little bubble it was easy to remain blissfully ignorant of trouble bubbling on the horizon. But as the years passed the quiet rumbles of change grew into cacophonies of thunder and it was impossible to ignore any longer.
The world was at war.
Clayton and George abandoned their home to fight - conscripted by the French armies to protect the land that had become their home. They were assigned to the same regiment, and their peaceful lives together came to an abrupt end. Gentle sunrises and lazy mornings were replaced with the pungent smell of lethal gas and the sound of gunfire, fear constantly etched onto their faces as time and time again they witnessed their partner in danger. Both George and Clayton would rather take on the entire German army alone if it meant the other never had to clamber over the top again.
“We will make it through this.” George said one night, the two of them unable to sleep in their bunks. “So long as we have each other, this war cannot last forever.”
It had seemed obvious at the time - but the intensity of the war only seemed to increase, the numbers of soldiers arriving in the trenches increasing every day, there was no sign of the war coming to a close. Weeks turned to months turned to years, nightmares plagued the two men when they could sleep and, when they could not, exhaustion sat heavy in their bones. Neither had made it through unscathed, but both were still, miraculously, alive.
When the order came that they would be advancing on the Western Front, neither man was surprised. They would make their move under the cover of darkness, the enemies wouldn’t expect an attack. Preparation took place as normal, Clayton and George managed to find a brief moment to say their prayers together - to promise each other that they would be safe and reunited again soon. It had worked every time before, and they were certain it would work again.
But, with all things, their luck came to an end. Although it was questionable to call what happened luck .
As they began their assault, clambering over the top and beginning to run with their gear, guns loaded and ready to fire, it became obvious that they hadn’t taken the enemy by surprise quite as much as they’d expected to.
Their regiment was met with a shower of bullets and shells, the world around them exploding. It was difficult to see where the grenades landed in the dark - George hearing the familiar sound of the cries of men being blown apart and thrown away, as if they were nothing . He had become desensitized to it and continued to run, the number of soldiers advancing thinning out with each moment that passed. Of course they had lost men during attacks before but this… He had never seen so few people running towards the enemy - and George wondered if this was it. He wasn’t ready to die, he wasn’t ready to lose Clayton, but he kept running. Turning around meant desertion, and he would be shot for that anyway.
A loud yell pulled him out of his thoughts and brought him to a skidding halt. There was one thing he was still attuned to, one thing that caught his attention no matter what was happening. Clayton being hurt .
As he turned to look around he saw the taller man stumbling, his chest covered with a thick liquid that reflected the moonlight and the flashes of explosions. There was only one thing that could be, and George scrambled to his side to catch him moments before he fell into the mud.
“Clayton!” He whispered, the younger man somewhat dazed as he searched for where the voice came from. This wasn’t a bullet to the shoulder, or a broken bone, this wasn’t something that could heal and they both knew that - they didn’t need to say that out loud.
“George…” He said faintly, the corner of his lips twitching into the smallest of smiles for a brief second as he looked up at the other man. “Y’shouldn’t stay still, they’ll… They’ll get you…”
George shook his head, blinking back tears and feeling some kind of laugh claw its way out of his throat. How the hell Clayton could think he gave a damn about being shot now was beyond him - but Clayton had always surprised him.
“Yeah.” He said, giving a small shrug of his shoulder and moving one hand to lace it with Clayton’s, his other arm still cradling the man close to him. “But I’ve got you.”
Clayton chuckled, though the chuckle soon became a cough and splatters of blood left his mouth. George could sense his discomfort and adjusted their position, sitting them both up to make it a little easier for him to breathe. He knew it wouldn’t last for too long, but George was relieved to hear his breaths become a little less laboured.
“George?” Clayton said quietly, George nodding and offering him a soft, reassuring smile. He sniffled, trying to hold in his tears and keep as composed as possible for as long as he could. “I love you.”
A pained sob shook his body and George just pulled Clayton closer. This wasn’t the end, it couldn’t be the end. Something would happen, they’d find a way to pull through, this wasn’t the end .
“I love you too.” George told him, rocking their bodies back and forth as he tried desperately to distract himself from the inevitable. He leaned down to press a kiss to his lover, not giving a damn about the consequences if anyone saw. This was going to be the last time that he could hold Clayton, and he wouldn’t let the man leave this world without knowing just how loved he was. He dared to deepen the kiss just a little, closing his eyes and pretending that everything was okay. In his mind he could pretend that this was all just a horrible nightmare - that he would wake up tangled in bed sheets with Clayton’s body pressed firm against his, the two refusing to move for hours on end as they relished each other's company, their warmth. Perhaps they would indulge in something a little more passionate than just holding each other, or maybe they would demonstrate their love through smaller gestures throughout the day - George would give anything to face those questions again.
George was so caught up in those thoughts that when the bullet passed through his head, he was dead before he even had time to register what had happened.
Several miles away the world was quiet, a gentle breeze blowing through the coats of the two men standing side by side. One lit a cigarette silently, the ringing sound of the two shots fired beginning to fade. The night sky was obscured by a thick blanket of clouds, making the trenches just a little bit darker than they would have been. With a squelch of mud beneath his feet, Darryl stepped away from the periscope rifle and turned to face the General beside him, offering his hand.
“Merci, Général Bruneau.” He smiled, shaking the man’s hand before bidding him farewell.
For some, 25 years might have been enough to give up on a case. But Darryl was nothing if not patient. As he returned to his post, he chuckled to himself.
“Affaire classée.”