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Chapter Text

The telephone rang on a Tuesday morning. George was already screaming his customarily cheery “tally ho, pip-pip, and a whoop-dee-doo!” into the receiver by the time Edmund had successfully wrestled it from his hand. He’d tried a thousand times to forbid the men from answering the phone, lest it be a command to march out into no man’s land that they actually intended to obey. That was, of course, never going to happen. Not if he could help it.

“Captain Darling, is that you?!” He exclaimed, before pursing his lips to make his best crackling sound; from the muddy floor of the dugout, George was watching with puzzled naivety. “I’m afraid you seem to be breaking up—I can’t—I’m sorry, I can’t hear—”

Captain Darling’s voice was impatient and unimpressed. “Relax, Blackadder; you can drop the faulty telephone line act. The general hasn’t given any orders.”

“Your genitals haven’t been forgiven by—who? The hoarders? I say, absolute gobbledygook. I’m indeed sorry to hear that, but I’m afraid you must have the wrong number.” He looked back at George, who was still just flashing that bewildered stare; by now, Baldrick had wandered over, giggling. “We are not, in fact, in the business of mediating between compulsive collectors and private parts here.”

“Blackadder! I don’t have time for your ridiculous insolence. There are NO ORDERS for you to weasel your way out of today.”

“Oh, Captain Darling!” Said Edmund, sound effects and silly voices put immediately to rest. “So it is you! Signal seems to have cleared up all the sudden. You were saying? About your genitals?”

“Ha. Ha. Hilarious. Very charming. Look, you ass, I’m really just calling as a courtesy to you. A lady came by HQ. She was looking for you.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” the captain said quickly, and then hung up the telephone.

“Well, I say, sir, what rotten luck we’ve got with those damn phone lines,” bemoaned George, while Edmund hurried around the dugout gathering his things. “One moment I could hear Captain Darling clear as day, the next—”

“Yes, alright, George, alright. Now, I’ll be gone a while.”

“How long, Captain B?” Asked Baldrick, stirring a pot full of dandruff, rat entrails, cat vomit, God knows, really, for breakfast.

“Well, forever, Balders, if I have anything to say about it. Past breakfast, at the very least. George, you’re in charge.”

“Yippetty-doo, ding dang, sir, very well! Your trench is in good hands.”

The hands in question were, at the moment, quite occupied in a futile attempt to scratch lice out of the lieutenant’s curls with a cricket bat. Edmund grimaced at George, amazed as ever that, after all this time, the boy still managed to mystify him. “Well...quite.”

“Have a nice time with your lady, sir!” Called Baldrick, by which time Captain Blackadder had already fled their dank and stinky trench with an uncharacteristic spring in his step.

“Ow,” he could hear George crying, no doubt having smacked himself with his delouser; and though the sound was distant, it wasn’t near distant enough.

Captain Darling was, as usual, sitting behind his desk, organizing pens and paper clips. And—and this was the important bit—he was alone. There was not a single other soul in sight, let alone a beautiful, charming woman anxious to sink her teeth into the delicious treat that was the dark-haired, mustached captain from the trenches.

“Oh, Darling,” said Edmund, trying to conceal his disappointment as he hung his filthy coat and hat by the door. “Darling, if you miss my company, you can just say so. No need to make up silly stories about ladies coming to visit.”

The man set aside his work, if you could call it that, and tried in vain to cover the edge of his desk before Blackadder could plop himself down on it. “HQ just isn’t the same without you, Blackadder,” said Darling, his tone thickly sarcastic, which Edmund interpreted, as always, as a challenge. “Butting your oversized nose in all sorts of places where it doesn’t belong, and all that.”

“My oversized what, Darling?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Oh, come, don’t be shy now,” he cooed, feigning sweetness, as he leaned in even closer from his perch on the desk. “Now, what would you like me to butt into?”

“You’re revolting,” whispered Darling, and Edmund fought back his grin until the other man looked away. “Now, I don’t have time to humor you today. Do you remember that nurse, Blackadder? The one you told the general was a German spy?”

Edmund pretended to comb disinterestedly through his memory banks, but in reality, he didn’t have to think about it. Of course he remembered her. The field hospital nurse—Mary.

Some of the details were fuzzy. What must it have been—a year ago now? Two? That long? But he’d never forgotten their nights together in that rickety hospital bed. Nights. Mornings. Afternoons. They’d had each other almost every way imaginable and smoked cigarettes in each other’s arms. After spending an entire war fooling about with George in their bunks, and lingering at HQ in hopes he might catch a glimpse of Captain Office Boy in his bath, and wishing some particularly beautiful young German would stumble helplessly across enemy lines, and even having an intimate dream or two about Baldrick, for God’s sake, it was—he had to admit—lovely to see and touch the curves and softness of a woman’s body. She was the only girl he’d had in years. He still thought about her sometimes.

“Oh, THAT nurse,” he said, finally, after Darling had offered him a few unnecessary clues. “Well, certainly, I seem to have a faint recollection...in fact, as I recall, she accused YOU of being the spy, didn’t she? An intelligent girl.”

“Don’t start, Blackadder. You tried to have her killed, do you remember that? If I hadn’t stopped that firing squad just in time, well...”

“Well, obviously, if she came here to see me, there’s no hard feelings.” He paused for a second, his own words suddenly sinking in. “Did she come here, Darling? Mary?”

“Oh, you remember her name now? Remarkable.”

“Shut up, Darling. Is she here?”

“No,” said the general’s assistant. “She was. She said she couldn’t stay. But she left a letter for you.”

He would never betray his disappointment—to this pencil-pusher most of all—but feel it, Edmund did. He expected a lot of himself, but the suppression of such a natural male sensation he would not demand. It would have been nice to see her—to touch her, smell her, take her, that is, of course—there was no denying that. Captain Darling was eyeing him from across the desk, watching relentlessly for any sign of weakness; it was a satisfaction which Blackadder would not allow him. The last thing he needed right now was the general’s office boy having one over on him.

“Alright, then, you bastard,” he said, finally, extending his arm. “Hand it over. And for God’s sake, Darling, don’t look so smug. You act as though she bent you over your desk and gave you a good hard shag.”

“Now, now, Blackadder. Don’t project your little fantasies onto the sweet, innocent nurse. If it suits you to think about me bent over this desk, why don’t you just say so?”

“You sick twat,” mumbled Edmund, and he could only hope that the other man didn’t detect the slight reddening of his cheeks; of course it suited him to think about that, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit it. “Hand the letter over, Darling.”

The man smirked wickedly, and at last acquiesced. Edmund took the envelope with exaggerated calmness, still staring at Darling while he broke the seal. The letter was written on one small page of hospital stationery, in a scrawl so authoritative and yet still distinctly feminine that it could only have been Mary’s—God, yet another thing he had so liked about her. He squinted, realizing for the first time that, in all his rush to get here, he had forgotten his reading glasses; he did his best to make sense of the tiny, blurred words.

But there must have been some mistake. Was he reading this correctly? Was it even meant for him? He looked up at Darling, demanding answers with just his eyes; but it was clear immediately that Darling knew nothing about it. Still, Edmund didn’t know what to do but ask. “What the devil is this?” He demanded, his voice accusatory, and shaking just a little. “Are you...is this some kind of joke? From your sick mind, Darling?”

“I don’t...Blackadder, I don’t know what you mean.” His eye was twitching wildly. “She handed me the letter. I handed it to you. That’s the extent of my involvement.”

“I don’t understand,” said Edmund, miserably, to himself now, but the other man’s interest seemed only strengthened.

“What did she say, Blackadder? What does it say?”

“It says I have a son.”

Without even looking over at him, Edmund could feel all of Darling's smugness and attitude deflate completely. There was silence, eerie silence, for perhaps an entire minute; and then the general’s secretary expelled a long, exasperated sigh and uttered two words.

“Well, bugger.”

Chapter Text

It was hard to even remember a time before he was risking life and limb for Blighty, first in the colonies and now this embarrassing farce of a war. Everything before seemed like a strange, hazy dream, not quite real, but the sort that even after you woke up, you couldn’t be certain that it hadn’t, just perhaps, really happened.

Or maybe—and this, he knew, was a distinct possibility—he just preferred not to remember, because before his entire existence was defined by allegiance to king and country, he was a nobody.

He disliked being a nobody. It wasn’t befitting, he’d been told, of a Blackadder.

“But this can’t be you, Captain B!” Baldrick had exclaimed one quiet and boring afternoon in the dugout, as he and George cooed and giggled over an ancient, faded photograph. It had arrived in a package sent by Edmund’s mother, with an accompanying note that read “found this with my things to throw out, wondered if you might want it.” The photo was of a child, no more than three, massive eyes staring straight into the camera, intensely serious frown plastered across chubby-cheeked face, frilly gown pulled up just enough to reveal two scraped knees.

“And why do you say that, Baldrick?” He asked with little interest, as he thumbed through a dull book that was, still, immeasurably more important to him than anything his mother could possibly send or say.

“Well, because, sir, this chap is so little! And you’re so big!”

“Now, I know you’re an exception, Balders, but that’s generally how transitioning from infancy to adulthood works.”

“It absolutely is him, private,” chimed in George, pointing to a particular spot on the photograph, an identifying mark, perhaps, and Blackadder was sure he could guess which. “See, look. Have you ever seen another child with such a great big mole on his cheek?”

Indeed, just as he’d thought. Baldrick whipped his head round and stared at Edmund, who felt rather like a zoo animal all the sudden, and then roared joyously. “You’re right, Lieutenant George! It certainly is him!”

The truth, really, was that he hardly recognized the child in the photograph any more than Baldrick did. That was another life. He was called Ned in those days, named for his father; he had two younger sisters and a little brother, Harry, but they were never important because they didn’t have the name—the name Edmund Blackadder. His father, a lazy but clever man who gambled and stole in place of a profession, never hesitated to remind him that it was a huge responsibility: carrying on such an illustrious name. A name borne by princes, lords, MPs and lawyers and philosophers, writers and doctors and thinkers and bishops, perhaps even a king once or twice, it was said. If Ned failed to live up to it, then shame on him.

Ned was a special child, his teachers told him—but begrudgingly brilliant, his precociousness making him a target for all kinds of harassment from the other boys. And, no, the big mole and the large nose inherited from his father—and his father’s father, and on down the whole damn line—certainly didn’t help, either.

He couldn’t do anything about the mole or the nose, so he resolved to hide his mind behind a constant destructiveness—he became chronically naughty, wild, irreverent. It may have won the favor of his peers, but not that of his father; and so he trained himself, trained himself as hard as if he were already in the army, not to care, no matter what the man did to him. It took a long time, but he managed to do it. Cynicism was his security, his safe place, the blanket he wrapped himself up in to hide from the whole rest of the world. If he didn’t care, who or what could ever hurt him?

And nothing did.

“Why the devil does it matter what I do with this bloody name?” He demanded of his father once, during a particularly strong spell of not giving a damn. “They were all a bunch of cowards and liars and pretenders. Sod them all. Every last one of them.”

“You’re a nobody, Ned,” his father had fired back. “Without our name, you’re a nobody.”

“WITH our name, you’re a nobody, dad,” he spat, and when another blow landed, he didn’t mind.

Not many years later, his father up and left them. According to his embittered mother—who hated Ned because he looked just like the man she’d been stupid enough to marry—this seemed to be a bit of a Blackadder family tradition, as well.

“What a bloody joke,” he mumbled, though he did not realize he’d actually said it out loud until George and Baldrick began asking him what was.

“The photograph, cap?”

“What? Oh...yes. Mm-hm, the photograph.”

“I don’t think it’s a joke at all, Captain B. I think you were a lovely little chap. I, for one, rather like the mole.”

“Well, thank you, Baldrick. Now I can go over the top and to my grave a happy man.”

Baldrick gave a gummy smile, uttered something like “aww, thank you, sir,” sincerely. Though Edmund would never admit it, there was an almost comforting quality about him in times such as these, and George, too, in his own bumbling way. Pathetic as they may be, they at least could not be further removed from the history of the Blackadders.

Sometimes that made him envy them.

“I’ve got a thoroughly dead brother, and sisters married to men respectable enough to wear down any Blackadder blood that manages to slither its way into their spawn,” said Edmund to himself now, back in the trench after his fateful meeting with Captain Darling. Mary’s letter in hand, reading glasses on now. He’d read it again with fully working eyes—three times over—and yes, indeed, and despite all his best hopes, he’d seen it right. “I was bloody sure this line would die with me.”

“The line of the Blackadders, sir?” Asked George, flipping through the latest issue of King and Country. “Well, that’d be a blasted shame!”

“Would it, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, now, cap, pish, pish! Don’t tell me there’s not some special lady you’d like to carry on the legacy with. Raise little nippers, walk them to school and teach them to spit and smack their misbehaving bottoms, and all that.”

“Yes, quite charming. No, as a matter of fact, George, the whole thing sounds about as appealing to me as Baldrick’s meatloaf surprise.”

Baldrick, who was too busy preparing said meal to hear the insult, went on sautéing the poor unfortunate bugs—and God knows what else—he’d found in the latrines this morning. He did, however, chime in with some words of wisdom of his own. “Ah, come on, Captain B. You’ve got to pass on those good looks of yours, handsome bloke like you!”

“Baldrick, if that was the only reason people had children, your mother and father would have been about as likely to jump into bed together as an ape and a donkey. Which, incidentally, they—”

“Still, I can’t say that I understand, sir,” interrupted George, which probably was for the best. “All this talk of babies, and carrying on the family legacy with the very fruit of your loins. What’s brought this on, anyway, cap? I thought you were off to HQ for some top-hole boffing, and instead you come back all doom and gloom.”

“It’s really none of your concern, George. I’ve dug myself into my very own inescapable trench, and it’s up to me to get out.” Edmund leaned forward, chewing the fingernails on one hand and using the other to tap a pensive beat on the table. “If I can just think of something...”

“Oh, come on, cap, let us help!” Pleaded George, as he got down on his knees before Blackadder. “Chums don’t let other chums suffer alone! Do they, Private Baldrick?”

“Well, certainly not, sir! Friends are always there for each other.”

“Well, yes, I imagine they are. Unfortunately, you two are not, nor will you ever be, my friends.”

“WAIT!” Exclaimed Baldrick, becoming so excited that he threw his frying pan up in the air. Somewhat predictably, it bashed George in the head on its flight back down to earth, sending his face careening forward into Blackadder’s crotch. “I have a cunning plan, sir!”

“Balders, how can you possibly have a plan? You don’t even know what the problem is!”

“Well, the way I see it, sir,” reasoned the private, as he sat beside Edmund at the table, “you want to make sure the family line dies with you. That you get no pretty lady up the duff with a little Adder tot. Is that quite right?”

“Yes,” said Blackadder, drawing out the vowel sound.

“Well, then, all we’ve got to do is cut it off at the source. And by that, of course, I mean cut IT off!”

George, who’d been in no hurry to move from his compromising position thus far, straightened suddenly and stared up at Edmund with wide, terrified eyes. “Oh, good Lord, cap,” he whispered urgently, “don’t let Private Baldrick cut it off! Please!”

“Ah, come on, sir!” Continued Baldrick, pulling a knife out of his belt now. “It’s the one sure way, Captain B! I’ll make it quick and painless as can be!”

“For reasons I don’t feel inclined to explain to you, Balders, ‘cutting it off’ won’t get me out of my present predicament,” said Edmund, head in hands, not even feeling enough like himself to react to his batman’s latest stroke of genius. “It’s a bit too late for that. But thank you, sincerely, for your consideration.”

“But it’s bound to work! Go on, sir, open up!” Shouted the private, grabbing at Edmund’s trousers; and this was the final straw for George, who jumped right into the captain’s lap and blocked the way.

“Now, you know I’ll always support your cunning ideas, private, but I’m afraid this is just too much! I don’t like using my superior rank against you, but you’ve left me no choice—you’re not to touch cap there, or anywhere else, do you understand me? That’s an order!”

“Alright, alright, I was just trying to help, Lieutenant George!”

“I’m not sure you bally well were!”

“Oh, good God, would you both SHUT UP!” Edmund screamed, and at last, as they stared at him in apologetic bewilderment, there was quiet. “Thank you. Now, for God’s sake, just go away. Go away.”

Baldrick obeyed, but George lingered, still perched protectively in Edmund’s lap. Blackadder heaved a sigh and allowed himself a moment of weakness, resting his forehead against the lieutenant’s shoulder; he felt, after several seconds, George’s hand in his hair.

“Whatever’s wrong, cap, I can fix it.”

“No you can’t, George. Now leave me alone.”

“Well...yes, sir.”

“Leave me alone, Ned,” his father had said once, pushing him out of his lap and onto the floor. “Go on, go away.”

Captain Blackadder enjoyed the silence, at last, in the dugout, and shoved the letter inside George’s King and Country magazine for later. Mary’s hospital stationery would be just as satisfactory as any other pathetic substitute for toilet paper.

He knew, late that evening, that he’d made a fatal error. He woke from a restless sleep and came face to face with Lieutenant George, candlelight reflected in startled blue eyes, as he sat at the table. “I couldn’t sleep, cap,” he said, voice trembling. “I just wanted to read my King and Country. I—”

“Just say it, George,” groaned Edmund, sitting up in his bunk and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He supposed that, for one reason or another, sleep may be a thing of the past for him now. “Just bloody say it.”

George’s hand was shaking ever so slightly as he lifted it from the table, crumpled letter hanging limply from his fingers. Edmund sighed and closed his eyes.

“You…you’ve got a kid, cap? You and that pretty Nurse Mary—you’ve got a little nipper?”

“Do you understand now, Lieutenant?”

George nodded, but Edmund watched in confusion as a massive grin spread across his face. “Well, zip zap and toodle-dum, cap! Congrats, by God! When do I get to meet the little blighter?!”

“Oh, dear God,” he grumbled, and rolled back over in his bunk.

Chapter Text

Mary had beautiful hands, small but adept and strong, always clean but not soft, calloused from a lifetime of caring for others. During their mornings together, so long ago, while the rest of the hospital was just beginning to awake, she would trace Edmund’s shoulder blades with her rough fingers and whisper naughty sentiments and sweet nothings in his ear. He would pretend that it did not thrill him.

He watched her hands now, shaking ever so slightly—but still uncharacteristically—while they held her coffee cup. They were still beautiful, but there was something different about them. There was something different about all of her.

Of course, he knew what it was. But he tried not to think about that.

“I’ll be honest,” he told her, once their obnoxious French waiter had finally stopped trying to interest them in some vile midday special, and at last, they were alone. “I was...less than delighted by the contents of your letter.”

“Mm. Because telling the man who tried to have me killed that I gave birth to his child was just a lovely thing for me to have to do, too.”

Her hands may have been shaking, but her voice certainly was not. She was as steely and unaffected as he remembered her, taking a long drag of her cigarette as she stared at him, unimpressed, as if asking him—daring him—to do better than that. He raised an eyebrow at her; she mirrored him. He half-laughed and threw up his hands.

“Look, don’t tell me you don’t understand, Mary. Anyone would have thought you were the bloody spy. How was I supposed to know that idiot George was telling old Von Uncle everything?”

“A good commander knows his men, Captain Blackadder,” she said, without even a moment’s thought or hesitation. “It is captain, still, isn’t it? No promotions?”

“No, ma’am. Not a one.”

“Ah. I didn’t expect so. Anyway, Edmund, who says I’m not a spy? Did it never occur to you there might be more than one?”

“Well, of course it did. But General Walrus-Face was so mortified at the thought of wrongfully executing an attractive woman that he forbade any further investigation into the matter. Put you right back to work that afternoon, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not.” She put her cigarette out on the table and lifted her coffee to her lips. Her mouth, too, was beautiful, dark flushed pink and shaped like a delicate bow. He thought back to kissing her—remembered those lips in all sorts of places. “So, captain. Have you forgotten why you’re here? Why I asked you to meet me?”

“No. No, I’m painfully aware, I’m afraid. And I’ve had some time to think it over, and I’ve come to a decision.”

“Oh, have you, indeed?”

“Quite.” He nibbled on the end of his croissant, even though it was stale and he was not hungry; he took his time. Then he spoke. “I don’t want anything to do with your child, Mary.”

“Well, that’s your prerogative. Absolutely.”

“Yes. I—” He stopped himself, and squinted at her. She was, still, wholly unfazed—stirring another lump of sugar into her coffee and staring at him. “Hang on,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her, but she smirked.

“What? How would you like me to react, Edmund?”

“Don’t be smart, Mary. You know just what I mean. If you don’t give a damn whether I’m in the little brat’s life or not, why the devil did you bother writing me?”

“Would you like me to cry? Scream? Stomp my feet? Hit you with a handbag?”

“Stop that,” said Edmund, shaking his head, as if that would make this all go away. He was losing control over the situation, and that was one thing he couldn’t stomach. She had the ability to do that to him—a rare gift that only a handful of people he’d encountered in his entire life seemed to possess. He’d forgotten. “Enough, Mary. Don’t be ridiculous. You know I don’t want you to do that. I just...why...if my involvement really matters that little to you, why did you write to me? Why tell me at all?”

“I could just as well ask the same thing of you, captain. You came all the way here to tell me something so succinct and unfeeling that it just as easily could have been sent in a letter.” She paused, and flashed a coy grin at him over her baguette; he felt a distinct and irritating twitch between his legs. She knew just what she was doing to him; of course she did, she always had. “What do you say to that, Captain Blackadder?”

“Well. It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He shrugged his shoulders, feigning nonchalance, and gestured round them to the bustling Parisian streets. “Day of leave, a reprieve from the trenches. An entire afternoon in gay Paris. Who wouldn’t accept?”

It had sounded excellent in his head, and even as it tumbled from his mouth, but her expression of thorough amusement remained unmoved. He rolled his eyes, and she laughed, which almost made him laugh, too.

Almost.

“Oh, Edmund,” she whispered, resting her chin in her hand, and suddenly he was aware of her foot rubbing up and down his calf. He stiffened, thought about pulling away, and then quickly decided against it. “I think we’re both being dishonest with each other, aren’t we?”

“Well...perhaps.”

“Why did you come to see me, Edmund?”

“You asked me to, Mary.”

“I didn’t command you to, though,” she asked, smiling at him, her foot under his trouser leg now, tickling bare skin. “Did I?”

“I don’t understand,” he said, fighting hard to regain the upper hand. “I just told you that I want nothing to do with your child. For God’s sake, I tried to have you shot! But if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get me to go to bed with you.” He felt his belly fill up with heat when her foot reached his lap, and settled there, pressing just so; he stared at her, and decided she had taken the first step in terminating any semblance of subtlety. He may as well play along. “Mary, are you trying to get me to go to bed with you?”

She lit another cigarette, and he hated the way her touch vanished when she sat back in her chair. “Well,” she shrugged, “we all have our weaknesses, don’t we?”

Upper hand be damned.

He enjoyed the way it felt to be buried between a woman’s legs—her thigh muscles squeezing his head so hard it nearly hurt, soft calves brushing his shoulders, ankles hooked round him and pulling him in ever closer. Her hand was in his hair, clutching at it; her little moans were quiet and sparing but so sweet when they were there, so high-pitched and girlish. She tasted as perfect as he remembered.

“Well, go on, big boy,” she uttered, breathlessly, when he paused to get some air. “Your work isn’t done quite yet, you know.”

He grinned at her, licked his lips, reveled in how flushed and unkempt she looked just now. He took that as a compliment, a supreme one. “No, indeed, ma’am,” he said, nudging her thighs apart again and settling back into position. “You sure you’re quite ready for this, my dear?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Edmund.”

He smiled, fondly. He’d missed her so much more than he would ever, ever admit. Ever.

They smoked in the afterglow, both still naked, her hair all down, a gorgeous, flowing, matted mess. An ashtray sat in Edmund’s lap as he leaned back against her, savoring the feeling of a woman’s arms around him, stroking him like he was the most beautiful being in creation. The motel room bed, a bug-infested nightmare that creaked with each lift of a pinky finger, was only marginally better than the one in the hospital, where they had spent all their other moments together—better because, of course, at least here, George and Baldrick and a dozen other smelly wounded blighters weren’t on the other side of the wall.

“You men and these silly things,” she fussed, playing with the hairs on his mustache while he scrunched up his nose at her. “You never seem to think about the fact that certain acts would be so much more pleasant for women if you would just shave them off.”

“What, did it tickle?”

“A little. And I’ll be all scratched tomorrow.”

“My poor darling,” he pouted teasingly, and she shook her head and grinned at him while he turned round just enough to kiss her lips. “Never mind that I just gave you the best bloody rogering of your life.”

“Oh, hardly.”

“Mm-hm.” He stubbed out his cigarette and watched while she slipped out from behind him and lay down, facing him, her head propped up on her elbow. She still looked beautiful, maybe more beautiful than ever, but her manner had changed; it was undeniable. She was giving him a look that was a bit less patient, a bit more expectant. And much less adoring. She had him where she wanted him now; he felt, suddenly, like an utterly stupid git.

“Alright,” he groaned, “why don’t you just come out and say it, then?”

“Say what?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. What you want from me, Mary.”

“Now, what more could I possibly expect from you today, Edmund? A man can only be expected to go on so long, you know.”

“How cheeky,” he said, and she smirked at him. “Then why do you insist on giving me that look?”

“What look?”

“The marry-me-and-give-me-money-because-I-popped-out-your-progeny look.”

“You’re impossible,” she mumbled, rolling over; and as he stared at her pretty back he knew he had, at last, struck a nerve. It had certainly taken him long enough—which he wasn’t used to. He could manipulate, charm, or bully most people into bending to his will within mere moments. Not Mary. This one, he had to work for.

And he did ever so like a challenge once in a while.

He fought back a smile while he ran his fingers over her bare shoulders, nibbled on her earlobes, nuzzled her hair. “So I got it right, then?” He whispered, and she scoffed.

“Oh, please. You don’t really think I want to MARRY you?”

“Well, I’m sure you could imagine worse fates.”

“Not really. No, Edmund, I don’t want you to marry me. I don’t want your money, either. I don’t want anything.” She turned back over and put her cigarette out, then almost immediately reached for another. “No; call me old-fashioned, but I just believe letting a man know that he has a child somewhere out there is the right thing to do.”

“You don’t care about doing the right thing.”

“Don’t I? Perhaps you’re so weary and indifferent from fighting this bloody war that you can’t remember a world where people just want to do what’s right, Edmund.”

He watched her while she blew a large puff of smoke in his direction, her face unchanging, her eyes serious and sincere. When he didn’t respond—couldn’t, didn’t know what to say, because the truth was he’d given up hoping in such a world long before the war ever started, wasn’t sure he’d ever believed in it—she softened, and smiled, and curled into his chest, pressing soft and reverent kisses to his collarbone and his nipples. He rested his hand in her hair.

“So,” he whispered, so quietly he almost hoped she wouldn’t hear him—hoped he wouldn’t hear himself, that the universe wouldn’t hear him. “What’s it like?”

“What?”

“Oh, God. Come on. Your child, Mary. What’s your child like?”

“Well, he’s not even a year old. There isn’t much to tell. He’s like a baby, because he is one.”

“Does he look like you?”

“Not even a little.”

Edmund shut his eyes, sighing—envisioning an infant with the grotesque Blackadder nose and accompanying mole. “Well, there go all his chances, I’m afraid.”

“No. He’s a gorgeous child, in fact. Striking. And incredibly bright.”

“Well. A mother’s love, I suppose. Where is he now?”

“At the hospital,” she replied, her face still buried in his skin, voice muffled. “The other nurses are caring for him while I’m gone.”

“The...field hospital?! You raise your child in a field hospital?”

“Well, where else am I supposed to raise him? I can’t afford not to work. I have no one. There’s no one else for him. It has to be me.”

“He’s going to catch some repulsive disease from those disgusting prats you treat, Mary,” exclaimed Edmund, at last sitting up and pulling away from her, though he regretted to do it. “Or even better, catch a bullet in the brain before he’s old enough to speak!”

“He speaks already, actually,” she told him, the picture of unbothered calmness. “I challenge you to find a man who can demand milk or strike up an admiring conversation about army tanks more adeptly.”

“You can’t raise your son on a battlefield.”

“Do you care, suddenly, how I raise him?”

Edmund stopped himself. She was right. He had not been careful; he’d nearly had cause to regret it. Now, he took a breath and collected himself. “No,” he said, slowly, but confidently. “No. I don’t. Why should I?”

“You shouldn’t. Anyway, he’s happy. It’s all he knows. And though the notion may be startling to you, it turns out that I’m a very good mother.”

There was the slightest break in her voice when she said it; his chest tightened a little. He wanted to embrace her, but he resisted. “That doesn’t startle me,” he said, instead, quietly; she did not reply, and he was grateful. He held her hips and lifted her into his lap, cupping one of her soft, sweet breasts in his hands, tentatively. He’d been mindful, all afternoon, not to touch them. She grinned at him while he kissed her there, gently at first, and then desperately.

“I thought you never would, though I seem to recall this was one of your favorite pastimes the last time. What, you think they’re poisoned now?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he answered, honestly—mostly. Her breasts were larger, fuller, than when he’d first known her, a phenomenon about which he certainly wasn’t going to complain, but it was still a reminder of her change in condition.

“It doesn’t hurt, you silly boy. Oh, dear Edmund...”

“Mm.”

He felt that familiar tingling build up deep inside him as he enjoyed her, the warmth of her skin, the tugging of her fingers in his hair. In a minute or two, he’d be ready again, especially with the way she was moving gently, involuntarily, in his lap. If he was going to ask his final question—one last polite query, and then he could feel forever like a decent man who had paid his dues—he had better do it before his brain became overloaded with thoughts of anything but.

“What do you call him, Mary,” he whispered, more interested in the increasing friction between them by now, but asking anyway. “Your son.”

“Eddy,” she said, simply, as if it were nothing. He felt his whole body tense and start to shrink away; he yanked back from her, staring in bewilderment. She tried to kiss him, pressed her lips against his unreceptive mouth, and raised her eyebrows at him, demanding an explanation. “What the devil’s wrong with you?”

“You called him...after me?”

“Not Edmund. Just Eddy. He’s just Eddy.”

Blackadder scoffed, pushed her away, got up from the bed. In a second, he was pulling on his clothes; she sat up and asked, again, what the problem was, but he was too disturbed, too angry, even, to respond. He buttoned his uniform and fumbled with his tie, which she had gotten all in a tangle while tearing it off, not even whole hours ago. Now, he couldn’t stand to look at her.

“You don’t have to know him,” she assured him, but he could hardly make himself listen. “In fact, knowing you, Edmund, I’d probably rather you didn’t. But he must have a name. My family—my family’s nothing. Calling them nothing is generous. Especially back in England. I won’t do that to my child; I love him too much. With your family’s name—an old, respectable British name—my son will have a chance.”

“You call him Blackadder?!” He screamed, suddenly, turning to face her; for the first time in his life, he felt tempted to hit a woman, and she flinched, as if she knew what was in his mind. He managed to stop himself. But it was difficult. “Mary, I absolutely forbid you from giving your child my name. Damn you, Mary, why the hell would you do that without my bloody permission?!”

“I’m sorry, Edmund,” she said, arms crossed now, all her usual resolve and fearlessness having already returned to her. It only made him angrier. “This isn’t negotiable. He is my child and I will call him what I like. Now get the hell out. Don’t let me see you again. Ever.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, you blasted whore,” he spat, grabbing his coat and throwing open the door. “Damn you, you bloody trollop. Damn you.”

“Goodbye, captain,” she called coolly, and he cursed under his breath while he stormed down the stinky hotel hallway, kicking every scrap of rubbish or living creature that was unfortunate enough to get in his way. He was, for the first time, incredibly anxious to get back to the frontlines.

By the time he arrived back at HQ, night had fallen, and a single lamp remained on in the general’s office. Unfortunately, the narrow beam of light was just enough to illuminate the pathetic frame of Captain Darling, asleep on the sofa; Edmund shuddered with unusual levels of disgust at the sight, and, seizing on the opportunity, smacked the man as hard as he could across the face.

“Ow!” Cried out the general’s secretary, shooting up abruptly, holding his red cheek. There was a drool stain on his chin and he looked like he couldn’t even remember where he was, much less process how the sudden pain must have originated. He blinked at Edmund in confusion. “Did you...you didn’t—did you—”

“Are you alright, Darling? I heard a sudden scream, sounding rather like a distressed adolescent girl, and came running.”

“I don’t...I don’t know. Must have been dreaming...hit myself, maybe,” replied the man, sleepily, and Edmund fought back a grin. The little spat of violence had him in much better spirits already; he couldn’t wait to return to the trench and smack Baldrick around for a while. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Are you...are you just returning, Blackadder?”

“Ah. Indeed. Many thanks for covering for me with the general, Darling. I am in your debt. Well, I’m headed back to my men now. Goodnight.”

He turned on his heels in a hurry; but of course, because this was Captain Darling he was dealing with, it was not going to be that easy. “Wait, wait! Don’t be absurd, Blackadder. I ensured you were able to get away for this meeting; surely I’m entitled to some insight into how it went.” Edmund looked back at Darling, and saw that he was perched up on the arm of the sofa now, looking quite expectant, perhaps even tickled. He patted the cushion beside him, and Blackadder rolled his eyes.

“Oh, God. No, Darling; I draw the line at telling office boys bedtime stories.”

“I could always tell the general the truth—that you deserted today to gallivant around Paris. Hm?”

“You bloody prat. Enough with the air of superiority, Darling. It doesn’t suit you.” His hands tied, Edmund made his way back into the office and sat on the sofa, putting his feet up on the table by the fire. “I saw her. I shagged her. I left. End of story. Now, off to bed with you, little Kevin; go on, be good for your nanny, now.”

“Shut up,” said Darling, as he pulled the table out from under Edmund’s legs and propped up his own boots. “So, did you meet the kid?”

“Nope. Not going to, either.”

“You...you’re not going to.”

“No.”

“And she’s...she’s alright with that? The nurse?”

“Seems delighted by it, actually,” replied Edmund, interlacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back. He shifted over just enough to kick Darling’s legs off the table and take it back for himself. “Who can explain women these days? So independent, aren’t they...wanting to raise children on their own, go to work, vote. What’s next—perhaps they’ll be clamoring to serve in the army. Oh. Wait. I forgot—they have allowed one lucky girl to come along, haven’t they.” He slapped Darling on the shoulder. “Congratulations on that, by the way. We’re glad to have you.”

“Life would be so much easier for you if I WERE a girl, wouldn’t it, Blackadder? All your little daydreams, desires—they wouldn’t feel so deviant, then, would they? You poor thing.”

“Oh, dear God,” mumbled Edmund, pretending not to notice Darling’s thoroughly pleased grin. “I’m going back to my trench. That is, if Lieutenant Barleigh and Private Baldrick haven’t managed to blow it up in my absence.” He rose from the sofa and put on his hat, taking one final satisfied look at the bruise already forming on Darling’s cheek. “Goodnight, Darling. Next time, you needn’t wait up for me. So devoted; it’s touching, really.”

“Sod off.”

“Oh, you too, Darling. You too.”

The trench was quiet when he got there; George snored lightly in his bunk, clutching his cricket bat in one hand and a bottle of Scotch in the other, and Baldrick sat up against the makeshift muddy wall, eyelids fluttering shut and then shooting open again every few moments. “Taking the watch, Balders?” Asked Blackadder, as the private sprang to his feet instantly and took his coat for him.

“Ah, I sure am glad to see you, sir. We missed you today, that’s for certain. Did you have a nice trip to Paris?”

“I did, Baldrick. I did.” He remembered his previous whim to beat the little creature up upon his return, but somehow it didn’t sound quite as entertaining anymore. “Go on inside; I’ll sit up for a bit.”

Baldrick smiled broadly, nodding. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Goodnight, Captain B.”

“Goodnight,” he called after the private, who had already disappeared into the dugout. He leaned back against the wall and stared ahead, exhausted, but not sleepy; there was one last cigarette in his pocket, and he pulled it out and tossed it into the dirt, unlit. He remembered Mary’s hands, beautiful hands, holding her coffee cup and tracing the grooves in his skin. He wondered if her child had her hands.

Chapter Text

Sex had been a pervasive and dominating presence in his life for as long as he could remember. He walked in on his parents once, his father looming over the bed and mother propped up there on elbows and knees—an image both revolting and exhilarating enough to make a deep impression on a constantly wide-eyed and curious five-year-old. “You didn’t see anything, Ned,” they both tried to convince him, mortified desperation in their eyes; and though he wasn’t entirely sure at the time what it was that he’d seen, he knew it was certainly not nothing.

Since they didn’t seem inclined to explain, he turned to the great teacher of all things saucy: books, of course. He combed through the pages of the Old Testament and William Shakespeare and the great poets and playwrights, his eyes trained to recognize several keywords. Embrace. Kiss. Beauty. Passion. Body. Naked. Love. Sex. Any words he did not know, he looked up in the dictionary, and then added them to his mental list of ones to watch for. He huddled under his blanket late at night, armed with a single tiny lamp and holding his breath to keep from waking his little brother, and he read. He read not necessarily to gain any kind of pleasure or even enjoyment, but to understand. He wanted to know what this was all about, the same way he had an obsessive drive to learn anything and everything in those long-past innocent days, and so he did his best to educate himself.

He had always appreciated the beauty of both girls and boys, desiring them just the same, and was never uncomfortable with that fact. It made up who he was, and so, despite his mother’s constant vitriolic reminders that to love someone of the same sex was repulsive, he did not struggle with it. The human body was beautiful to him, in all its many varieties.

He first touched a girl at eleven years old, huddled in the gutter behind the pub where his mother worked, pressing his nose tentatively into pretty braided hair while their hands poked and prodded pubescent changing forms beneath the other’s clothes. Her name was Lizzy, and he liked her pretty red eyebrows. His introductory experience with a boy followed soon thereafter, when he was sent away to school and made a chum who was just as curious and fascinated by the sins of the flesh as he. He was called Percy, a tall, quiet boy with hair almost as curly as Ned’s. They used to gaze upon great ancient statues in the British Museum, the voluptuous male curves and lines and bumps all immortalized in marble, and then, fumbling and giggling, try to find the same body parts on each other in their bunks at night.

The whole thing ceased to be as fun when his friend began pressuring him to do things that seemed, even to someone as adventurous as him, too much for a tiny thirteen-year-old body. He stopped playing with Percy, and not two months later his former chum’s mother pulled him out of the school, and there were whispers among the pupils that it was because Headmaster Grove had been “doing things” to Percy, and Percy did not like it.

“What sort of things was he doing?” He asked the older boys, not understanding, because all the teachers did any number of unpleasant things to all of them, every day. “That’s just part of school, isn’t it? It’s bloody torture?” His fellow students snickered at him. Once he’d finally convinced them to give him some examples, he was astonished and confused because the things they were describing, in hushed tones and with reddened faces, were exactly the same things Percy had tried to do to him.

He supposed that was how he learned one of life’s most difficult lessons: that no matter how much you hated the things someone else did to you, it didn’t mean you wouldn’t try them out on another person—even a person you loved. Maybe you couldn’t help it.

And suddenly, the generations of detestable Blackadders—each one, he had no doubt, as sorry an excuse for a father as his was—made perfect sense.

But at the time, he was more worried about Percy than himself, or his father, or all the fathers that had come before. He lay in his bunk at night and wondered how his friend was doing, and hated himself for not knowing, not helping, not saying yes to the things he’d wanted.

Then the older he got, he realized it was no use. There was no point feeling sorry for Percy, and certainly not in feeling sorry for himself. Instead, he made it his life’s purpose to make things impossible for Headmaster Grove, the evil bastard; and no number of after-class beatings could deter him from his mission to be an even bigger terror than he already was.

“I’ll bet you enjoy this,” he liked to taunt, bent over the man’s desk, gritting his teeth through every sharp swat of the paddle across his bottom. “I bet it gives you a bloody hard-on, you sick twat.”

It only succeeded in getting him hit harder, but that was alright. He really didn’t give a damn.

He had not, in truth, had many lovers since joining the army; but there were some girls, women in the colonies with beautiful dark skin and thick hair and gentle hands, and a few men, other soldiers who may or may not have been of his same persuasion, but were at least lonely and desperate enough to oblige him. He enjoyed having sex, but disliked all the pleasantries and politeness normally required to get there; so he avoided anyone who expected more. The very notion all but repulsed him.

George, daft as he was, was a particular favorite—young and pretty and clean and sweet, eager to please, remarkably experienced thanks to his otherwise useless days at Cambridge. And most important, the lieutenant was deliriously happy to be buggered senseless without any kind of emotional commitment. It was ideal.

Then there was Captain Darling.

Edmund lay all the blame on General Melchett’s party. The madman threw a massive celebration for his own birthday, pulling what seemed to be the entire western front from the trenches and leaving the whole line undefended so that he could get drunk and ogle young, pretty boys. Baldrick was delighted, and George was ecstatic, but Blackadder was so disgusted by the whole spectacle that he spent nearly the entire birthday bash holed up in the office, drinking alone by the fire and reading a book while hordes of smelly soldiers danced and sang and shouted in the next room. By the time Captain Darling joined him, complaining vaguely of a headache or urgent work to do or an argument with the general—Edmund couldn’t really remember—they were both quite whammed, and their usual hateful banter morphed easily into competitive flirting, and then became drunken caressing and fondling that culminated in a scramble to undo belt buckles and shove hands down trousers. The doors flew open, and there was Baldrick—in the worst place at the worst time, as usual—informing Edmund with excitement that they were about to cut the general’s cake, and Darling straightened his clothes and fled the room, and that was that.

That was months and months ago now. They never spoke of it, only made vague references to the other’s deviant attraction in their most spiteful moments, pretending that the lust and fantasizing was one-sided. Edmund hated that this had happened—hated that he found himself desperate, sometimes, for this sniveling pencil-pusher—but tried not to think too much about it, tried not to analyze himself. Because—and it was the strangest thing—one of the blessed few sober thoughts he could remember having, that night at the general’s party, was how much Captain Darling reminded him of his old friend Percy just then, sweaty curls down on his forehead and sweet timid affection in his eyes. He wished he could just do something about it, take what he wanted the way he had with everyone else he’d ever desired, but this was Captain Darling.

And that was a blow to his ego he wasn’t sure he could take. Bloody humiliating, in fact.

And of course, there was Mary. Mary.

Mary was special in a way nobody since his old chum Percy had been. She was beautiful; she was tender; she was witty; she was strong. She was his intellectual equal, something he’d missed deeply being stuck in a trench with George and Baldrick. And she was so, so skilled in the art of making a man feel unbelievably good. She was perfect.

Well, she had been. Once.

His more prudish relatives—the religious side of his father’s family, from whom his parents mostly tried to stay away, mercifully—used to tell him and his siblings that sex was a sin unless it was taking place for procreation. A man and wife, once they were financially able, should lie together and produce a child, as that was their solemn duty in the eyes of the Lord.

“But what about when two boys have sex?” Asked Harry once, right there at the dinner table with a mouth full of potato. Ned, a confident, ruddy-cheeked seventeen-year-old, was home from school, and the relatives were in town, and the whole family was together for a while--except his father, who had already long deserted. “Or how about two girls? They can’t produce a child then.”

All the adults stared at him in complete mortification. Their aunt folded her hands and began to pray. Ned and his sisters all shared a glance, fighting hard to keep from giggling uncontrollably. His brother was a wonderful child, gorgeous in his sweetness and innocence, but not clever the way he and his sisters were; and while Ned had brought up plenty of inappropriate subjects in front of dad’s devout family, it was never because he didn’t realize they were inappropriate.

The adults tried to explain, but Harry shook his head, not letting this go. “Ned has sex with boys,” he insisted, pointing his fork in the direction of his older brother. “Don’t you, Ned?”

“Oh, my God,” he breathed. All the adults turned on him now; his mother's jaw trembled in her rage; his sisters couldn’t hold in their laughter any longer; Harry was paying close attention, his eyes wide and full of expectation. Ned sighed. If anyone could dig their way out of this, it was him. He always had before.

But he’d never believed that sex existed purely to produce children. It was, he thought, perhaps the one thing that made living within the confines of a human body worthwhile. If there was a God, surely he wouldn’t gift such a beautiful thing to his people unless he wanted them to take full advantage of it--with whomever and as often as they could, for any reason, or for no good reason at all.

He hadn’t had sex since his meeting with Mary in Paris. George wanted to, he could tell; the boy was thick, but he had become attuned to Edmund’s emotions, and liked to make him feel better. But Edmund couldn’t do it. For the first time since Percy’s pestering in boarding school, he didn’t want to.

The truth was, he missed Mary. And—if he was being brutally bloody honest with himself, which he tried not to be too often—he was scared. This wasn’t just for fun anymore. He was dealing with the consequences—or rather, Mary was. All by herself.

A child. A human being.

God, what had he done?

Chapter Text

Nearly a month went by, but eventually George wore him down, with his big blue wounded puppy eyes and the constant “I’m just so bally worried about you, cap” whining. The boy lay in Edmund’s arms, catching his breath, while the captain—against his better judgment, but hadn’t he ceased following that long ago anyway?—told him, generally, what happened that afternoon with Mary.

“Well, see here, cap,” said the lieutenant, sitting partway up and curling Edmund’s blanket round his bare shoulders. “I don’t understand what you feel so damned rotten about. I don’t think you did anything wrong, sir.”

“Who said I feel rotten about anything, George?” Demanded Blackadder as he put out his cigarette and flicked it into the mud. “Were you listening or weren’t you?”

“Well, it’s just a hunch, I suppose, sir. Believe me, now, I mean no disrespect. But there is a bit of a cheesed off quality to your tone, cap, you must admit.”

“I’m always cheesed off, George, and anybody who’s not isn’t paying attention.”

“But at yourself, sir—cheesed off at yourself!” Exclaimed the boy, with passion, bless him; Edmund rolled his eyes. “And I don’t think you should be. See, cap, Nurse Mary is terribly strong. I’d bet my nipples that she’s just fine raising the little blighter on her own.”

“Well, she is. I know that much.”

“Right! Then what’s the problem, cap? She wants to raise her child without you, she said?”

“Essentially, yes,” said Edmund, and that was the truth.

“Then, good Lord, sir, from where I’m sitting, you’ve done the right thing staying out of it. Dunk me in hot vanilla icing and call me Bertha if I’m wrong.”

“No, I don’t think I will, George, thank you. Now go on; out of my bunk. And don’t wake Baldrick.”

George obeyed, saluting as he did so, which Edmund always found so damn embarrassing. “Goodnight, sir,” he said, giving Blackadder’s arm a final caress. “And remember what I said. A child belongs with its mother, cap, surely. It’s not as if you could raise the little sprog in our trench, anyway, sir.”

“Well, dear me, I had no idea. Thank you, as always, for your incredibly insightful words of wisdom, Lieutenant. Kindly subject me to no more of them tonight, please.”

“Quite right, sir. Toodle-pip.”

Edmund turned over and tried to sleep, though it had been a while since he’d been able to do that with much success. Not three minutes passed before he could hear George snoring.

“A child belongs with its mother.” Fundamentally, he believed it—or, at least, he wanted to.

One of the few things that managed to fascinate him anymore was how often grown men resorted to longing for their mothers in times of warfare. He could remember when he was just a fresh-faced private, and the extent of the English army’s strife consisted of using and abusing people whose only crime was speaking a different language, eating healthier foods, and dressing to match the warm weather. Even then, stationed on some beautiful tropical island where there was hardly a single care, he’d hear his fellow soldiers sniffling about how much they wanted their mums. Meanwhile, he felt like he was on a glorious vacation, carefree for the first time in his life.

In the trenches, it was that much more acute. George, who was too thick and brainwashed by Blighty to be afraid of anything in his waking hours, sometimes cried for his mother as he slept, thrashing back and forth in his bunk. Exclamations of “mum, mum!” were always interspersed with screams of terror, and he’d wake up drenched in sweat, wet hair sticking to his forehead, and ask what everybody was staring at. He never had any memory of the incidents.

Baldrick, who could neither read nor write, looked forward to “letters” from his mother as if they contained piles of cash and lifetime supplies of chocolate rations. In reality, they were shakily addressed envelopes stuffed with scribbled-on scraps of paper, usually ripped from the comic sections of the Daily Mirror. There were two words the woman could write without any misspellings, and she penned them across the bottom of her notes with a scrawl so confident it could have been a noblewoman’s.

“Love, Mummy.”

Baldrick cut out every single one of his mother’s farewells and tacked them up on the wall of the dugout, beside his bunk. “The whole bally trench will be wallpapered with Mrs. Baldrick’s send-offs before long,” George liked to tease. That always made the private beam with pride. “I so love me mum,” he often reminded them—a beautiful and rhapsodic expression of affection coming from a man who ordinarily couldn’t put two words together in a manner that made any sense. “I sure wish she was here.”

Edmund’s mother came to the train station to see him off the day he left. He was barely eighteen, tall and gangly and already tired of the world. He didn’t believe in the military’s causes—loathed them, in fact—and found it all idiotic at best, evil at most likely. But he had to go somewhere. Somewhere far away.

He had not contacted his father in years, always ignoring the annual letter full of admonishments to apply himself, be worthy of his name by becoming a man of state or medicine or religion. But it was with uncharacteristic enthusiasm that he sent this telegram.

“Joined the army. Never coming back. Sod off and die. Edmund.”

It was the first time he’d ever used his full given name, a trend that would continue ever after. Ned Blackadder--his parents’ boy--he would be no more. He was his own man now. He was determined to be.

“I told you, it’s Edmund,” he reminded his mother, as they waited on the crowded train platform, all his worldly possessions confined to a single knapsack slung over his shoulder. His father was not there, the telegram fated to be forever unanswered; his sisters were at work, slaving away at the textile mill; his brother was dead. It was just the two of them—him and his mother. “It’s not Ned anymore. Edmund, mother. It’s Edmund.”

“You’re my child and I’ll call you what I like,” she replied, fussing over a perceived stain on his collar. “I really don’t understand what this ridiculous whim is, Ned. You’re not fit to be a soldier; you know that.”

“I’m as fit as anybody else, mother. I’m going to prove it to you.”

“Always so stubborn. You’re just like your father. Really, Ned, what do you think you’re doing, going out in public dressed like this? I’m embarrassed to even be seen with you.”

He tried to smile, for the sake of keeping the peace and making their last farewell a pleasant memory, but it was hard. When the conductor bellowed “all aboard,” he pried his mother’s hand from his shirt and nodded at her. “Goodbye, mother,” he said softly. “I don’t think I’ll be back.”

He was lying, because in reality he knew he wouldn’t be back. Ever. But he didn’t say that—not to her. Not now.

He waited, waited for her to plead with him not to go, to well up with tears, to pull him into an embrace. But she did none of those things. She laughed.

“Right. Goodbye, Ned,” she said. And she laughed.

It was the last time he’d seen her, and thank God for that.

Once, when he was in one of his particularly cynical moods, he groaned and rolled his eyes at Baldrick’s regular “I want me mum” routine. They’d just been shelled by the Germans for upwards of three hours, and the private was still curled up in his bunk, crying and trembling and begging his mother to come save him. “Just what, exactly,” taunted Edmund, “do you think your feral chimpanzee mother could do for you if she were here?”

“She’d hug me,” Baldrick replied, without even a moment’s pause to think. Edmund never forgot that.

It was not yet a full week since he’d told George about Mary. He returned to the trench following a predictably mind-numbing and utterly pointless meeting with General Melchett, and Baldrick was outside the dugout, seemingly waiting for him. “Well, hello, Balders,” he said, handing off his hat. “You missed me that much, did you?”

“It’s a letter for you, sir,” replied the private with immediacy, as if he’d been focusing very hard on this task and must hurry and get it done lest he forget how to hand over a piece of paper. “It’s from Lieutenant George.”

“Lieutenant George? Why the devil would he write me a letter? Is he not here?”

“No, sir,” said Baldrick, as Edmund tore the seal and put on his glasses. “He wrote you a letter to explain that he’s off to play cricket with Bobbie Parkhurst for the afternoon. Oops, I’ve spoiled it. I’m sorry, Captain B.”

“No, Baldrick, actually, you haven’t spoiled it,” said the captain, surveying the letter with irritation, but certainly not surprise. “That’s not what this letter says at all. This letter is addressed to someone called Mary.”

“Oh, bugger, sir! I’ve done it again. There were two letters, sir. That means I’ve delivered yours to Nurse Mary!”

Edmund’s shoulders tensed, his eyes snapping upward. By pure habit, he grabbed Baldrick by the collar. “NURSE Mary? You said Nurse Mary, Baldrick?”

“Yes, sir! You remember that pretty nurse, don’t you? The one you tried to have killed?”

“Shut up, Baldrick!” He demanded, shaking the private now, though he knew in his logical mind that this was in no way the little animal’s fault; but, after all, that had never stopped him from victimizing him before. “Oh, damn him! Damn him—George, that bloody pea-brained prat! What the hell did he write her for?!”

“Well, I don’t know, sir!” Shouted Baldrick, terror and desperation in his eyes. “Don’t ask me! You’ve got the letter right there, sir!”

Edmund was too angry and horrified to bemoan being corrected by his batman, and rushed to look again at the paper in his hands. “Oh, God... ‘Dear Mary, you probably don’t remember me, I was your darling Georgie who you so generously gave all those darling little teddy bears...’ Oh, blast it...yes, yes, get on with it... ‘I know you and my Captain Blackadder had a little—’ oh, damn him! ‘To be quite honest, I supported cap not wanting to see the nipper, but he's just seemed so terribly sad all this time and I feel I should let you know that he's bally well overcome with guilt...’ Oh, my God! ‘And though I know how important it is for a kid to be with his mother, I think Captain Blackadder would love to help you raise your child but is simply too manly to say so...’ Oh, my God, Baldrick, he’s mad! He’s mad! ‘If there’s anything I can do to help unite your family, I should be more than happy to—’ Good God, Baldrick! How could he do this to me?!”

Baldrick looked even more lost than usual. He blinked four times, staring blankly, before opening his mouth. “Captain B, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, never mind it, Baldrick. Never mind it. You, my little friend, are a bloody hero!” He grabbed the private by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. “You’ve saved my bottom, Baldrick, delivering Nurse Mary the wrong letter! I’d marry you and have YOUR little nippers if I could.”

“Ah, sir, what a lovely thing for you to say.”

“Good God, I’ll have his backside for writing this drivel. Where were Lieutenant George and Bob going to play cricket, Balders?”

“HQ, sir. The general’s providing his office for the occasion.”

“Of course he is. Well, back to HQ. Goodbye, Baldrick.” Edmund shoved the letter and his glasses in his pocket, threw his hat back on, and gave Baldrick an affectionate slap on the cheek; then he was off, to beat the bloody life out of a certain wounded-puppy-eyed git.

“Goodbye, Captain B!” Baldrick called after him. “I’ll have dinner ready for you when you get back!”

Chapter Text

Edmund burst through the doors at HQ, smacking Captain Darling right in the nose as the office boy busied himself shining the door handle. “Christ, Blackadder!” The man exclaimed, with such an insulted shock in his eyes that one might have thought he was a scandalized woman, betrayed by her lover, in some poorly written, trashy romance novel. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, for God’s sake?”

“Why don’t YOU watch where you’re dusting, Darling? Now, out of my way. I need to see George; I know he’s here.”

“That’s none of your concern, Blackadder. The general requested a top-level security meeting with the lieutenant and Driver Parkhurst. You don’t have clearance.”

“Well, quite right. Wouldn’t want to interrupt their confidential cricket match, would we? Come, Darling, for one moment of your pathetic life try not to be so ridiculous—if such a feat is even possible for you.”

Darling was cowering behind his desk now, using it as a shield against Blackadder’s obvious wrath, which pleased Edmund enormously. The man’s eye twitched and he pretended to be quite occupied looking through a stack of blank paper. “I’m a busy man, Blackadder, and I’m trying to work. You stop with this insolence this instant and get out of here.”

“Is that an order, Darling?”

“Yes, it’s a bloody order.”

“Hmm. Pity that we’re of the same rank, and you CAN’T give me an order. But as you know, Darling, I’m an agreeable man, so I’ll oblige you; I’ll go.”

Darling watched curiously while he made his way to the door he’d come in; and then, in little more than a single swift motion, Edmund yanked off his boot, smudged the mud from its outsole onto Darling’s newly cleaned door handle—that part was just for spite—and made a mad dash into the general’s office. “Hey! Hey! Blackadder!” The general’s secretary was screaming from close behind. “Stop! Come back this instant, Blackadder!”

But, poor poor Darling, it was all for naught. Edmund had already broken through the general’s top-level security—namely, one set of unlocked doors—and thrown his boot across the room, making its intended contact with the side of George’s head. The lieutenant dropped to the floor, cricket bat flying from his hands and smacking Bobbie Parkhurst in the gut; and General Melchett looked on in stunned horror, his entertainment for the afternoon all crumpled on the floor clutching various body parts and groaning in pain. Edmund’s sense of vengeance—justice, really, it was bloody justice—felt almost satiated already, but he knew he must press on, and so he hauled George up by the ear and threw him onto the general’s sofa, the boy pleading all the while. “It’s me, cap! Stop, stop, it’s me—George! It’s me!”

“I bloody well know it’s you, George, and I’m here to kill you!”

“BLACKADDER!” Roared Melchett, having apparently overcome his state of shock; Edmund straightened immediately, and turned to face the general with a salute and a calm, cordial smile.

“Yes, sir?”

“Blackadder, why the devil have you intruded on a top-secret meeting merely to assault this poor boy?!”

“Sir, you can’t be blamed for not understanding.” Edmund left George to snivel on the couch and extended a hand to Bob, who took it gratefully and hopped to her feet. “Lieutenant Barleigh may have the appearance of an innocent, naïve, cricket-playing git, who would do anything for Blighty and couldn’t tell a sensible battle plan if it hit him over the head with a particularly large anvil—”

“Yes, indeed,” interrupted Melchett, an approving purse of the lips just barely peeking out from under his mustache. “Just the sort of chap we look for in the King’s Army.”

“Well, quite. But the truth is, sir, that the lieutenant is a conniving, wicked, traitorous pig.”

“No! It can’t be!” Cried Bob in anguish.

“Cap!” Exclaimed George, jumping from the sofa and rushing into Blackadder’s arms, earning a box to the ear in the process. “Cap, you can’t possibly mean it! You know I’d never betray Blighty, never!”

“By God, George!” Shouted Melchett. “Is what Captain Blackadder says true, my boy?! You’re a filthy traitor, cozied up in bed with Jerry?!”

“No, sir! No, sir, I—”

“I’m afraid he’s QUITE cozied up in bed with Jerry, sir,” agreed Edmund; and then, for good measure and for fun, he added, “in every sense of the phrase, I’m afraid.”

“What?! No! No, cap, surely you don’t really think—”

“Baaaaaah! Silence, traitor! Does your uncle Bertie know of this?!”

“Please, general, I would never—”

“It can’t be true,” lamented Bob.

“Because it’s NOT true,” said Captain Darling. All eyes in the room turned to look at him; he stood in the doorway, mud-covered dusting cloth slung over his shoulder, smug grin on his face. “Foiled this time, Blackadder,” he added, and Edmund froze.

“What the hell are you talking about, Darling?!” Demanded Melchett, who already had George by the hair. “You’d better have a pretty damned good reason for interrupting me when I’m busy leading this repulsive Jerry-rogerer to the firing squad!”

“NO!” Screamed George.

“Well, yes, sir. You see, this...” —he produced a crumpled piece of paper, all too familiar to Edmund, as he spoke— “...fell out of Captain Blackadder’s pocket.”

“Oh, damn,” muttered Blackadder, grabbing it from Darling’s hand. George’s letter to Mary. Of course.

“You know what that is, Blackadder?” The pencil-pusher asked, and Edmund nodded. Miserably. “General, I think you’ll find that Lieutenant Barleigh is as loyal a British soldier as you’ll ever meet. His perceived betrayal is not of Blighty, but of the prat standing among us with the large nose.”

“There’s no need to make comments about Driver Parkhurst’s nose, thank you very much, Darling,” said the general as he unhanded George; Bobbie’s face scrunched up in confusion, and Edmund shook his head and shrugged at her. “Alright, George. All an honest mistake, my boy; I know you’ll understand.”

“No, I bally well won’t understand!” George cried out, stomping right up to Edmund and pointing a finger in his face. His lip was trembling; his eyes were even bigger and more pitiful than usual. “Permission to speak plainly!”

“I have a feeling you’re going to, no matter what I say,” mumbled Blackadder.

Indeed. George was still going. “Now, see here, cap. I’ve never been anything but good to you, always chuffed to see you and help you, any way I can! I’ve been a good friend, sir! And you thank me by calling me a traitor! Trying to have me killed! And worst of all...letting the general call me a Jerry-rogerer! When you know I’m nothing of the sort, cap!”

“Now, now, George, let’s not be dramatic,” said Edmund, trying to laugh; but the entire room had turned against him now, all staring at him. “I think this was all just a...terrible misunderstanding. Perhaps I should just...let you continue with your match—er, your high-security meeting, that is. Goodbye, now.”

Darling was still grinning, looking oh-so-delighted, as Edmund passed him to leave the office. It made Blackadder want to be violently ill. “I’ll have your knob for this, Darling,” he whispered.

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you, Blackadder.”

“Sod off,” he spat, and Darling snorted.

Not three minutes later George was, predictably, slobbering a desperate apology for his little outburst; and while he was at it, Edmund got him to beg forgiveness for penning his rubbish letter to Mary in the first place. “I just wanted to help, cap, that’s all,” sobbed the boy, clutching at Blackadder’s uniform. “You know that, sir, don’t you?”

“Well, perhaps,” offered Edmund, diplomatically. He had to keep some semblance of peace in his trench, after all. “As long as you know that I wasn’t going to let Walrus-Face actually lead you to the firing squad.”

George looked up at him, large blue eyes still filled with tears, and smiled, dimples and all.

Bobbie drove them back to the trenches, her pretty voice contrasting strikingly with George’s boisterous wailing as they sang ragtime together. Edmund, stretched out alone in the backseat, pretended to be annoyed.

But really, for the moment, his world was rather calm. It was a small mercy which he knew better than to take for granted, and so he listened to the singing of his fellow soldiers and let his eyes flutter shut.

In his restfulness he was vaguely aware of George’s voice, no longer crooning, speaking now. “Do you hear that, young Bob?”

“Hear what, sir?”

“Well, I could almost swear I heard artillery fire.”

“Oh, well, let’s hope not, sir!” Exclaimed Bobbie, and the pair had a good laugh, and that was the end of it.

And then came the screeching whistle, the deafening boom, the half a second of hot searing pain, the tingling numbness, the blinding lights, the complete blackness. Edmund could hear the engine stalling—Bobbie shouting—George screaming. “Cap, oh my God, cap! No, no!” Crying—sobbing. “Help me, Bob, help him, help him! Cap! Oh, cap!”

And Edmund laughed a little. “Well, damn,” he muttered, and then all went silent, and for perhaps the first time in his life there was utter peace.

Chapter Text

It was not death that scared him. Much as he fought and struggled and schemed to never, ever be sent out into no man’s land to meet his certain end, it was not the end itself he was afraid of.

Nor was it the instant and utter and eternal nothingness that, he was sure, came afterward. That, to him, sounded actually quite nice.

Of those inevitabilities, he had little fear. It was what so often came before death that he dare not dwell on, that he felt so terrified to face.

Pain.

He was a month shy of his eighteenth birthday when he returned home from school and his mother informed him, unceremoniously, that his brother was dead.

“What, is this some kind of sick joke?” He demanded of her. “Harry’s thirteen years old. And perfectly healthy. He’s not dead, unless you bloody killed him.”

She took offense to such an insult, but not enough offense for Edmund’s liking. His brother had been her preferred child in their younger years—for the sole reason that Harry was not Ned, and anything was better than Ned—but she’d gotten bored of Harry, the way she did of everything else. His father loathed him from the beginning, because he was the spare son, inconsequential to the Blackadder line—and because, as their father so lovingly put it, Harry was “thick.”

When they sent Ned to boarding school--an act of mystery in Edmund’s eyes, because they’d always claimed to be so destitute--they put Harry and the girls to work in the factories. “It was always our plan to give you a good education, Ned,” his father explained, while the boy thrashed and struggled and said he wasn’t going unless his siblings could go, too. “We’ve made sacrifices, sure, but it’s all worth it to get you established the way a Blackadder should be.”

And he wasn’t allowed to argue with that.

So to the textile mill went Gertie and Caroline, with all their cleverness and their kindness and their beauty, and Harry exchanged his long days of play and tender innocence for even longer days at the London cannery.

And there, he had died—an accident, evidently. His arm got stuck in one of the machines and was shredded to pieces; the doctor tried to save him but didn’t try hard enough, Edmund knew, because he was just a poor, useless canning boy. There were a million of them out there, other helpless children whose parents were willing to sell them off for a bit of cash. Saving Harry wasn’t important.

So he had died, to provide some rich prat on a distant country estate with canned peaches to make fruit tarts.

To send Edmund to school.

He found the doctor who had treated Harry, and demanded to know whether his brother suffered. When the man wouldn’t tell him, he pinned him against the wall, using his superior height and strength to its full advantage, and demanded it more firmly.

“Yes, yes, alright? It took him four days to die. I did all I could. But he was in a lot of pain.”

Ned vomited in the street when he left the man’s office.

He joined the army not three weeks later, and left forever. And he swore he wouldn’t let himself die in pain.

When there was still only darkness, he became abruptly aware of an intense, piercing ache in his shoulder. “Oh, my God,” he groaned, only realizing he had spoken aloud when he heard his own voice—thick and slurred and scratchy, like he hadn’t opened his mouth in months. He wondered, for a moment, if he’d been wrong all along, and there was something after death, after all, and this was it—this was hell.

“Captain B! Captain B, you’re awake! Nurse, nurse, come quickly, he’s awake!”

“My suspicions confirmed,” he managed to choke out, right before he started coughing; he forced his eyes open, though his lids felt impossibly heavy. He came face to face with Baldrick as the private leaned over him and grinned insanely, exhaling his vile rat breath all over the place. “I AM in hell.”

“No, you’re not in hell, Captain B! You’re here, with me! Oh, hooray, sir—ah, how I’m delighted and positively jobsacked to see you looking so well!”

“Gobsmacked, Balders. The word is—” He sucked in a shuddering breath, realizing immediately upon attempting to sit up that it was a bad idea. It was only now that he noticed the blood-soaked bandages wrapped tightly round his shoulder and upper arm, and he sighed. “Oh, bugger. What the devil happened to me?”

“You were hit by shrapnel, sir. In Bobbie Parkhurst’s car.”

“Oh, what a pity. Was Bob hurt?”

“No, sir.”

“And George?”

“Not a scratch on him, captain.”

“Well, can’t have it all, I suppose. Where is the blighter, anyway? Not here to celebrate my miraculous awaking?”

“The general sent him off on leave, actually,” said a new voice—but one that Edmund knew woefully well. “He had a bit of a nervous break seeing you wounded, it seems. Heaven knows why.”

“Oh, God,” mumbled Blackadder. “Hello, Mary. So I’m in YOUR field hospital, am I?”

“That’s right. Only one for miles, I’m afraid. Private Baldrick, would you be a sweet lovely darling and go fetch Captain Blackadder a glass of water?”

“Right away, Nurse Mary!”

“Sweet lovely darling?” Said Edmund, rolling his eyes in exaggerated disgust. “Good Lord, Mary. I would prefer not to be subjected once again to your 'fluffy bunny' act, if it’s at all convenient.”

“It’s not. And anyway, the private’s been an absolutely wonderful help. Never leaving your side, in fact...two straight days now.”

“Two bloody days?! I’ve been lying here for two whole days?”

She nodded. Baldrick returned with the water, and she held the back of Edmund’s head while tilting the glass against his lips. “I think I can bloody well manage,” he spat, pulling away. “Don’t you have some disgusting, syphilitic patients with mortal wounds to tend to?”

“Tread carefully now, captain,” she said, obliging him as far as the cup was concerned, and thankfully not acknowledging it when he struggled to take the water with his one good arm. “You may consider not speaking so sharply to the only reason your arm isn’t lying in a rubbish bag, growing mold.”

His heart faltered for a moment, silent for two or three beats. “What...my arm? I could’ve lost it?”

“You’re lucky you didn’t. We nearly had to amputate. I managed to salvage it; it probably won’t ever be just the same again, but I’ll do my best.”

He felt sick. He was thinking about Harry.

“I’d like to be alone,” he begged, suddenly, not caring how pathetic he must sound. “Please. Leave me alone.”

“I’ve got to change your bandages, Edmund.”

“Just for a moment; I’ve got to have time. Please.”

Mary nodded, tapping Baldrick gently on the shoulder; they went away together. Edmund turned over on his side—his good side—and shut his eyes, wishing rather that he’d never woken up.

He slept, and he dreamt about his childhood. The good things.

Their parents, make no mistake, were two empty voids where there should have been love and affection and feeling. Most often, he and his sisters and brother hungered without eating, slept without being read to, cried without being hugged.

Yet when he remembered their earliest years, he remembered the rosy sweetness, innocence, magic. It was not because of his parents, but in spite of them. He and his siblings lived on a different plane, in another universe, from their mother and father and everyone else. He made sure of it; he protected them. Always, they were playing. They spent their days running through the forest in the company of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, and sailing across the ocean in the crew of Captain Blackbeard, and tromping the cobblestone streets of Elsinore Castle with Hamlet and Ophelia and Laertes. Far away, far far away, their parents didn’t matter; money didn’t matter; the crowded filthiness of London didn’t matter; nothing mattered. It was perfect.

Then he was sent away to school, and they to work, and they were all separated. After that, even when he was home on holiday and tried to protect them again, take them far away with their imaginations like he always had before, he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t the same. They could never recapture it—that faraway place. They couldn’t find it.

Perhaps that was why Harry had died. Edmund couldn’t protect him anymore.

Sometimes, in his dreams, he could go back. He could find it. But that was the only way, and it was rare.

He went there now. In Mary’s hospital bed, he found it, and when he woke up and it was gone again, he hid his face in the pillow and, suddenly a little child again, wanted to cry.

But he didn’t.

Baldrick, finally convinced by Mary to take a break from his captain’s side and go have something to eat, was back in their trench. Mary tended to the other soldiers, instructing her fellow nurses on how to best care for them; she was good at that. He found some peace in watching her go about her duties, all day long, never appearing to tire for a second, never showing a moment’s weakness.

He was silent while she changed his bandages. She seemed to understand—of course she did, she always did—and didn’t say a word, either. But once she was all finished, she rested her warm, beautiful hand on his bare chest, lingering there for longer than really made sense, and he was grateful for that.

When Baldrick returned—late in the evening, Edmund would have guessed, but there was really no sense of time here—he stopped in the doorway, and flashed a monstrously large smile down the hall, out of Edmund’s line of sight. “Well, hello, Captain B!” The little batman exclaimed, still staring into the hallway, waving now. “How lovely it is to see you up and around, sir!”

“Baldrick,” said Blackadder, utterly puzzled. Even for Baldrick, this was a new low—what, he was seeing visions now? “Baldrick, who the devil are you talking to? I’m over here!”

Baldrick turned and stared at Edmund, the real Edmund, in apparent shock and awe. “Oh, Captain B! I thought the other chap looked rather too little. Well, Nurse Mary has so kindly explained it so many times, but I can’t seem to stop confusing him for you.”

“What are you...”

But he stopped, because really he knew just which “little chap” Baldrick meant; and his supposition proved correct when he saw the thing come round the corner. He could hardly blame Baldrick for the confusion, because though the newcomer weighed less than a large bag of potatoes and crawled on all fours, it did have Edmund’s face, exactly—down to the skeptical dark eyes, the thick inquisitive eyebrows, the pouting bottom lip. It even had the first swirly tufts of thick black curls, the damned nose, that blasted mole. The only thing it seemed to be missing was the massive shoulder wound and the mustache.

Mary followed soon after the crawling creature and swooped him up in her arms, making some proud and smiling comment to another nurse about how soon he’d be up and walking. Baldrick ran to them and kissed the child’s chubby cheeks, exclaiming, “Eddy! Eddy, me little chum! Come, Nurse Mary, he can meet his papa now!”

Edmund stared at her, and she stared back. In her embrace, the baby laughed but wriggled, restless.

Chapter Text

Eddy, as the minuscule creature was called, was immensely popular. All the nurses treated him as if he were their own, showering him with kisses and cooing over his every move and babble; the wounded soldiers sneaked him sweets and tossed him in the air. Now, the child was sitting in Baldrick’s lap, shrieking wildly every time the private covered his face and then revealed himself a moment later. Baldrick was giggling, too, those hiccup-laughs he always lapsed into when he was especially delighted. Edmund watched his tiny doppelgänger play with the batman, a tinge of unsettled self-reflection eating away at him. He wondered if, even as an infant, he ever could’ve been brought joy by the presence of Baldrick.

The constant attention was well-received. The boy obliged his admirers, all throaty giggles and crooked smirks; but in the quieter moments, while he was crawling around by himself, there was an oddly intelligent and serious air about him. Like he couldn’t possibly be impressed by all this childish fanfare, not really, and the babyish joy was mere diplomacy, to keep the adults pacified, no doubt.

Then again, perhaps Edmund was reading too much into it.

Why did he care, anyway?

Well, he’d had all evening to observe the brat, and there was nothing else to bloody do. That was all, of course.

“He’s a jolly clever boy, Nurse Mary,” said Baldrick now, while the baby poked at his glasses and gurgled something vaguely resembling “eye.”

“He certainly is, isn’t he, private?” Said Mary, smiling over at them while she spoon-fed a bowl of soup to some pathetic blighter across the room. “That boy came out brilliant. I’m afraid I can’t take any credit for it.”

“Well, it’s no surprise, what with parents as clever as you and Captain Blackadder! He’ll be helping me come up with cunning plans in no time! Won’t you, Eddy?”

“Oh, God,” groaned Edmund, trying to press his pillow round his ears; but, as it turned out, that was no simple feat with one arm. Many things weren’t; he was learning that quickly. “Mary, I can’t listen to Private Baldrick play nursemaid any longer. Isn’t there a private room anywhere in this damn hospital?”

“What do you think this is, the Savoy?”

“Mary,” he said, looking at her pointedly, with just the right balance of desperation and sternness in his voice; and without a word she nodded. He was locked away in her office—the bed where it had all happened between them, so long ago now—within the hour.

When General Melchett caught wind of a certain private’s complete abandonment of his post, in favor of playing with a toddler at the field hospital, he was unhappy. Baldrick received a strong admonishment—most of which, the private informed Blackadder, he did not understand—and then returned to the frontlines regretfully, sans his beloved captain and tiny playmate. Edmund, at least, could now rest without hearing his batman’s grating baby voice on the other side of the wall.

But there was not much that could comfort him now. He was tired, exhausted really, but couldn’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a time because he was in so much pain. His shoulder gave him so much trouble that he wished, more than once, that Mary had just gone ahead and chopped the damn thing off.

Or, perhaps, just let him die. That was always an option.

“I’ve told the general not to expect you back in the trenches anytime soon,” explained Mary one afternoon, taking advantage of her child’s nap time by filling out some paperwork at her desk. She scribbled away with one hand while the other held her cigarette, propped carefully between her index and middle fingers, and Edmund watched as the smoke made curly trails round the room. “You’re certainly not going to be firing a gun with that arm.”

“Well, of course I am.”

“It’s your dominant side, isn’t it?”

“I can learn to use my left.”

She looked up at him, an incredulous smile on her face. “I don’t think I understand, captain. I’m saying the war—in all likelihood—is over for you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He sat up a little, letting the blanket pool round his lap. “I don’t think so,” he replied, after a few seconds’ thought.

“Edmund. Come. Don’t be silly. Don’t you want to go home?”

He laughed aloud. He couldn’t help it. “Oh, God. If you only knew.”

Her eyes softened. She set her papers down altogether and got up from the desk, sitting instead on the edge of his bed. “I forgot,” she whispered, as she lifted his foot into her lap and rubbed it gently. “You’d told me. There’s no girl waiting for you.”

“God, no. You know I wouldn’t want that, anyway.”

“I know.”

“There isn’t anyone waiting, but it’s just as well. It’s just, really, that I don’t know how to…bloody do anything else.” There was more feeling in his voice there than he’d intended, or than he even really felt. It must be all the medicine she was pumping into him, he decided. Surely. “I’ve been a soldier since I was eighteen. If I can’t fire a gun, I’m nothing, Mary. I’m a bloody nobody.”

She smiled sadly, shaking her head. He watched as she leaned forward, and then he shut his eyes; he felt her rough hand on his cheek, soft lips on his forehead. “You,” she said, and laughed softly, “could never be nobody. Edmund. That’s nonsense.”

“No need to get so sentimental, now. I’m perfectly alright.”

“I know,” she said, averting her eyes. If he didn’t know her better, he would have thought she might cry.

Oh, dear God. She was going to cry. He rolled his eyes. “Mary, stop that.”

“I suppose I’m…just sorry this has happened to you, Edmund.”

“Oh, sod off!” He exclaimed, giving her arm a teasing pinch. “Good God, Mary, you really are insufferable.” And then she was laughing, through her tears, and he was laughing, too.

The child, in his little bassinet in the corner, began to fuss; Mary gave Edmund a final smile, brushed his cheek, and went to lift the baby into her arms. “Oh, I know, darling boy,” she cooed, rubbing the child’s back through his ratty gown. “You’re mummy’s darling boy. Hungry boy, I know. Come, come.”

Edmund watched her leave. He heard the joyous uproar from outside the door as the nurses and soldiers saw that their little golden boy had awoken.

There was a telegram from George one morning, sent from Paris. “Awful sorry not there cap. Seeing you ripped apart like gutted bird drove yours truly a bit bally mad. Ace that you’re with pretty nurse Mary. Oh and how’s your little chap. Toodle-pip now.”

“It’s just typical,” Edmund complained to Mary while she changed his bandages. “Here I’m the one wounded, for God’s sake, and there HE is running around Paris, sending nonsensical telegrams from lovely, high-priced French brothels just because he’s bloody insane.”

Mary grinned at him. “Are we talking about the same kid? If I know George, he’s certainly not visiting any brothels.”

“Well, quite. Not unless expensive male prostitutes have suddenly become all the fashion for young Allied soldiers. But then, I suppose in France, it’s distinctly possible…”

“Edmund,” she scolded, but smiled as she did so. “It seems you know something about our sweet little friend George that I don’t.”

“Oh, don’t play so naïve; it’s incredibly unconvincing on you. Like you hadn’t guessed.”

“About George? Or you?”

He choked a bit, just on the pure abruptness of the thing, which by all rights should have made her laugh. But she was trying so hard to remain stoic, he could tell—with her lips pulled into a tight smile. Which was, by the way, disgustingly endearing. He caught her by the wrist, interrupting her work, and raised an eyebrow. “What,” he said, slowly, “about me?”

“Don’t play so naïve; it’s incredibly unconvincing on you.”

“Oh, shut up. How could you tell?”

“I just could,” she told him, simply, rolling her wrist over and getting free; she kept working on his shoulder. “It’s something about the way you make love.”

“Oh, come on,” he chuckled. “What, did I call you Tom in the throes of passion? Don’t be absurd, Mary. The way I shag a woman tells you I also shag men?”

“Mm-hm. Well. That, and…you know. Captain Darling.”

Now, he could withstand a lot, especially from her, but this was just too much. He yanked away from her touch and sat up. What did she know?! And how the devil did she know it?! “What in God’s name do you MEAN, Captain Darling?!”

“Oh, dear Edmund! You really think I didn’t notice? Years ago now—here, at the hospital. All your nasty little comments to each other, intimate glances across the room...Edmund, you tied him up, for heaven’s sake.”

“I tied him up to interrogate him!” He exclaimed—trying so hard, so bloody hard, to sound casual; damn her, how did she know, blast it, he was doomed, he was bloody doomed—and expelled a great loud laugh. “You don’t know me, clearly. Because I hate the man.”

“Love and hate coexist more often than you might think, you know.”

“Oh, spare me that Jane Austen drivel.”

“Well,” she giggled, reaching out to tuck a few wayward locks of hair behind his ear. He leaned into her touch, gratefully, starved of a woman’s gentleness for so long, enjoying it so much now. “I haven’t read much Jane Austen. But if she says the same thing, then she’s correct, I’m afraid. So, come; tell me then. Have you made love to him yet?”

“Captain Darling?! Oh, my God, Mary! For God’s sake, no! If you’re not careful, I’m going to vomit on you.”

“You’re so foolishly stubborn,” she said, still laughing. “God, it’s just like Eddy.” The mention of the child, the first all afternoon, made Edmund’s chest tighten; he said nothing. Mary looked up at him, not laughing anymore. “Sorry,” she breathed.

“Don’t be.”

“No; I am. I don’t want to be one of those dreadful mothers who can’t let anybody have an adult conversation without bringing up her child.”

“Well, he’s quite new; the novelty hasn’t worn off yet. You have plenty of time to get bored of talking about him.”

She smiled. She looked so pretty just now, filled with pride. Thinking about her boy. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he,” she whispered, like she didn’t want him to even acknowledge that he’d heard.

But he nodded, slowly. “Your son seems lovely,” he said. “I’m pleased for you.”

She was silent now—still smiling, but quiet and efficient as she finished dressing his shoulder. It was only while she put her supplies away that she spoke again, kindly, tenderly. “Perhaps I asked you the wrong question then, all that time ago. Perhaps there’s not a special woman. Is there a special man?”

“Oh, God. No. No.”

“Was there once?”

Edmund watched her—neatly returning her things where they belonged, straightening her hair to replace her nurse’s cap, filling her pockets with all the cigarettes she would need for the next few hours on duty. Folding her child’s gowns so they would fit better in the little drawer she kept for him, in her office desk. His heart swelled with trust, complete trust. “There was a boy,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He hadn’t spoken about this, ever—not to anyone. No one knew, or ever had. “When I was a boy. At school. There was one.”

“What was his name?”

“Percy.”

“Oh, darling,” she said, and came back to his side, hugging his head to her belly; he wrapped his good arm round her waist, and let her hold him. Suddenly, he was crying—quiet weeping at first, and then sobs, heaving sobs, desperate sobs. He felt her arms tighten round him, her lips pressed in his hair.

Now that he had started, he could not stop. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. It must’ve been when his brother died.

No—not even then. He’d been angry then. He had not cried. He had not let himself.

“I’m here, Edmund,” Mary was whispering, as he clutched at her, frantically, like she’d vanish if he let go. “I’m here.”

“She’d hug me,” he remembered Baldrick saying. He gripped Mary tighter.

He slept almost the entire rest of the day, which was just as well; he wasn’t sure he could bear to face Mary after he’d blubbered like a pathetic schoolboy all over her clean uniform, and just generally made a complete and utter ass of himself. She, very graciously, left him mostly to himself, only slipping in when she needed something from the supply cabinets and always, if he was awake, pretending not to notice.

It was late when the office door opened, waking Edmund from a restless slumber, plagued by unpleasant dreams. He thought, maybe, he was still in one of them when he met the eyes of his visitor.

“Captain Darling. To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“I’m here on an errand, Blackadder,” said the man—no, not a nightmare, but flesh and blood and weaselly voice and all. He had a large bag slung over his arm. “I’ve been by your trench today—”

“Oh! Darling! YOU, in the trenches? Oh, dear God, you poor little thing. Did you get your boots dirty?”

Darling feigned hysterical amusement, but only for a moment; he slid the bag across the floor toward Edmund’s bed. “I’ve brought by some of your books. The nurse sent a telegram this afternoon and asked if I could fetch you some.”

“The...the nurse?”

“Yes. YOUR nurse, if you understand me.”

“Mary?”

“The very one. I saw her on my way in; she gave me this.” He held out an unopened bottle of whisky; Edmund groaned and rolled his eyes. “Said we could have it if we wanted. She really is terribly concerned about you.”

“No, I assure you, Darling, that’s not what this is.” Edmund could hardly believe this was happening. Mary—damn her—had set him up with Captain Darling. What kind of twisted fantasy was she entertaining, that he would get drunk and shag the general’s office boy, drugged up and one-armed in a hospital bed? This woman was even more bizarre than he’d bloody thought.

“Look, Darling, why don’t you sit down,” he sighed, resigning himself to, at least, phase one of her twisted fantasy—him and Darling in a room together, behaving civilly; how nauseating!—but she’d get her comeuppance for this, he would make sure of it. “You must be exhausted after your little adventure on the frontline. And company is difficult to come by for me these days, I’m afraid.”

“As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind having a bit of a rest,” said the man, plopping down in Mary’s desk chair and putting up his feet. “Or breaking into this charming little bottle she’s given us.”

“I could not agree more. Go on, Darling; pass me a glass.”

It was wondrous what a couple drinks down the old hatch could do. Edmund was poor at holding his liquor—always had been, though he’d started drinking at an absurdly young age in order to amply play the part of raucous, irreverent boy—and within the half hour, his speech was slurring and he felt good and nasty.

“I saw your boy when I first got here, Blackadder,” said Darling, not quite as drunk as Edmund, but getting there. “Good God, that likeness is—”

“Oh, bugger off, prick!” Hollered the whammed and wounded captain, throwing his head back as he emptied another glass. “That kid looks nothing like me.”

“—it’s disturbing, to tell you the God’s honest truth. If there was ever a face that certainly did NOT need to be doubled, well…”

“Just because you want my face between your legs, Darling, you don’t have to insult it.”

“Ha! You bloody wish!”

“Oh, come off it,” Edmund sighed, thoroughly bored of this conversation. His drunken mind raced even faster than it did sober, and he had no patience for their usual mindless banter. “Talk to me about something interesting, for God’s sake. How are you here, for example? The general let you get away? What, is he sorting his own paperclips for once?”

“Certainly not. He’s been asleep all day. Must have had a little too much to drink last night; does that from time to time. And then I get a day off,” Darling added quickly, a satisfied grin on his face. Something about it was surprising to Edmund—averse to the realities of combat as Darling was, he had at least always seemed blindly devoted to General Melchett—and the disdain was, almost, refreshing. It made him more real—nearly human. Darling must have noticed a change in his manner, for he let out a quick, snorting laugh. “Now, what’s that face for, Blackadder? Are you sobering up already? Mortified to be sitting across from the likes of me?”

“There’s no face, Darling. I’m tired, I suppose.”

For the first time, the man’s gaze softened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shaking the whisky round his glass. “Does it hurt much,” he asked, trying to sound unfeeling; but Edmund knew better. He could tell. He cared.

“Oh, not really. Only enough to make me beg for death at every hour of the day.”

Darling smirked, but only after Edmund did so first. “Bum luck, Blackadder.”

“Indeed.”

But Darling was still just looking at him, hunched forward, eyes gently curious and curls swept across his forehead. At some point in their drinking, he’d rolled his sleeves up just past the elbow, leaving his milk pale forearms exposed. They were so smooth, unscarred, lightly dusted in fine blondish hairs. Edmund licked his lips, suddenly feeling quite parched.

Oh, God, why was he thinking about kissing those arms…

“Everything alright, Blackadder?”

“Mm. Mm-hm.”

For God’s sake. Stop. Stop it.

But Darling looked so lovely just now, didn’t he? In the low light…his eyes focused on Edmund, and Edmund only…and Blackadder could almost swear the man’s trousers looked tighter-packed now than they had a few minutes ago, before they’d lowered their voices…

“Look, for what it’s worth, Blackadder,” said Darling—sitting back in his chair now, and Edmund mentally cursed him for it— “I’m sorry I said that…about the boy.”

“Oh, my God,” groaned Edmund, wondering whether it would ever again be possible for him to have an intimate conversation without that tiny sod being brought up. If today’s track record was any indication of the future, it did not bode well.

“I’m not being smart. I am…sorry. From what I can see, he’s an astounding child, really. He was crawling around chattering about tanks when I got here. Quite remarkable for his age.”

“Yes, just what the world needs: another weapon-obsessed Englishman.”

He felt a twinge of guilt when he said it. This was, after all, Mary’s son he was talking about. Mary’s little boy. The love and pride of her life.

But he must keep up the act. Around Darling, most of all.

When the general’s secretary spoke again, it was in a low whisper. The light, maintained by a single desk lamp now—the other had burnt out—was even lower. Darling’s eyes were like pale blue glass in the dim glow. “What about it frightens you so much?”

“What?”

“You know. Having a child.”

Edmund scoffed. Beautiful as he may look, Darling had overstepped there; and Edmund didn’t want to take him to task for it, because that just sounded so bloody boring, but he’d really been left with no choice. “Oh, I don’t know, office boy. What about war frightens you so much?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“What about real work frightens you so much?”

“Oh, shut up, Blackadder. If you don’t want to answer the question, fine.”

They were silent for a long time. Edmund tried to will the other man to speak first; his pride made it difficult to take that step, but the truth was that he didn’t want to stop talking to Darling. Even if it meant talking about this. He rolled his eyes, finally, and swallowed. “Sorry,” he breathed, barely audibly, and Darling didn’t acknowledge it, which made him incredibly grateful.

They sat for so long—half an hour? an hour, even, maybe? time was meaningless to Edmund now—and Darling, still, did not speak. They hadn’t touched the whisky again. Edmund, feeling almost sober and wildly careless by now, at last muttered “sod it,” and tried to keep his voice from shaking. “Darling, I don’t know if you know much about my family history.”

“Should I?” Asked the other captain, and Blackadder felt a rush of relief at hearing him speak again; he could swear he had begun to forget what Darling’s voice even sounded like. And besides, the complete lack of reverence for the Blackadder name was immensely refreshing.

“No. You shouldn’t. Though if you were speaking to my father, he would make you believe we were the most important family to ever grace the history of the British Isles.” Edmund laughed a little, bitterly. “God, it’s been so long since I’ve even bloody thought about the old man. Good thing, too.”

“I know what you mean. My father was an utter brute. Struggling industrialist.”

“Mm.”

“And he took out his frustration over those struggles on all of us,” continued Darling, a wry half-smile on his face. “Our mother, my sisters, me. As if it were our fault he was a bumbling drunk.”

“Were you the oldest?”

“No. Youngest. Only boy.”

“Ahh, mummy’s darling little prince, then, I suppose.”

Darling shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance, but the fond twinkling of his eyes betrayed him. Another man who must wish for his mother in the long nights of war.

Edmund envied him.

“You have siblings, Blackadder?”

“I did. Haven’t spoken to them in ages.”

“Don’t get on with them?”

“Oh, God, no, that’s not it. They’re brilliant. Too good for me. I’d only ruin them.”

Darling said nothing for a few moments. He looked down at his hands, then back at Edmund. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“You see, Darling, we Edmund Blackadders have a long and proud history, going all the way back to the days of Richard III, of being total and utter rubbish. Cowards, liars, ugly heartless men, the lot of them. It’s a bloody curse, I think. Really.”

Darling looked at him, unmoving and stoic, watching him closely; Edmund did not break the eye contact, and instead stared back. The room was silent—eerie. All the others must have been asleep; through the crack under the office door, Edmund could see only darkness. He felt cold, suddenly, and wanted—needed—Darling to say something. Something. Anything.

Then he did. “Well, you aren’t them, you know,” the other man whispered, voice steady and confident; and as cliché and unhelpful as it was, there was something wonderfully comforting about it—because perhaps Edmund had never really realized that. That he wasn’t them. His father. His grandfather. The first ever Black Adder, and all the way down the line: they were not him, and he wasn’t them, and perhaps he might really, once and for all—sod every last one of them—be the first good man this damned family had ever known.

Oh, God, he thought, the instant the obnoxiously self-righteous resolution had passed through his mind. You complete prat. You’re the worst of them all.

Your son’s in the next room, and you’re pretending he doesn’t exist. You haven’t so much as smiled at him. You’re the worst of them all.

And Captain Darling was still staring at him, his blue eyes soft and kind, and Edmund couldn’t let himself look at them anymore. There was something intimidating about the way the man looked now—not snarky, not resentful, and most incredibly, not afraid. Calm—unselfish. Lovely.

And there was something else, too—something else in Darling’s eyes, his manner, the way he was leaning forward again, so close to Edmund’s face, too close—Edmund knew it. Darling looked hopeful, anticipatory, curious...gentle...innocent...and suddenly Edmund was a schoolboy again, hiding under blankets in his best friend’s bed, feeling for the first time the sweet, soft lips of another human being against his own...

“You remind me,” he said slowly, “so much, sometimes, of someone I knew once.”

“Someone you liked?”

“Well, yes.”

“Someone you loved,” Darling pressed on, and this time there was no question—it was a statement of fact—he knew just what Edmund was trying to say. Edmund licked his lips, tried to decide whether he should swallow his pride long enough to say “yes, of course,” but it was all for naught because Darling spoke again.

“I want you,” he whispered, and a thrill shot straight through Edmund’s body. He didn’t know what to say. All there was to do was be honest.

“I want you, too.”

Darling nudged Edmund’s forehead with his own, like a cat desperate for attention. Edmund gave it, pressing their foreheads together; Darling’s curls fell into his eyes, and the man’s breath was warm on his face. Their eyes were locked on each other’s. God, Darling’s eyes were so blue, so clear, so beautiful. So tender. With his good arm, Edmund reached out, tentatively, nervously, to hold the back of his companion’s neck; he stroked the soft skin there, the tight wisping curls. Darling drew in a quick, shuddery breath, and then as if it had been rehearsed their eyes closed at the same instant, and Edmund pressed his lips to the other man’s, doing at last what he’d wanted to do for so long.

For so much longer than he’d ever even admitted to himself. And now that he was doing it, he hated himself for waiting this long.

Darling’s mouth was wet and warm; their mustaches scratched together; Edmund’s nose bumped against Darling’s cheek. The man let out a helpless, enraptured squeak as Edmund’s tongue traced his bottom lip, which made Edmund go weak. He gripped Darling’s face, cradling his cheek, pulling him closer.

Suddenly, without even a moment’s warning, Darling pulled away. Edmund looked at him, demanding an explanation with his eyes only, because he had not yet caught his breath; but Darling was silent, just staring back at him, eyes large and afraid. “I...I should go,” he said, hurriedly, putting himself back in order, and Edmund’s heart ached.

“I don’t...I don’t want you to go,” he said, pitifully, but what the devil did he care for his pride anymore? “Darling...I mean, darling. Sweet darling. My darling. Please don’t go. If I’ve done something wrong, I—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. Edmund. I’m sorry, I...I just should go. The general...I...I should.” Darling put his hat back on, buttoned his coat, laced up his boots. Edmund wanted to go after him, wanted to grab him by the ankles and kiss his feet and beg, but he wasn’t sure he could even move from this damned bed. He tried, tried to jerk his body round and put his feet on the floor, but a tearing pain shot through his shoulder and he shouted, screamed, cursed. And then Darling was back at his side, helping him back onto the bed, kissing his forehead, smoothing his hair, whispering to him. “It’ll be okay,” he was promising, and Edmund wanted so badly to believe him. “I’ll come back...I...I need time. Edmund...sweet...I’ll come back. I will.”

“I don’t want you to go,” he was crying as Darling left the room, and then long after he was gone, still. His shoulder hurt so bad; between his legs, he ached; his heart felt like a stone with a weight tied round it, destined to sink to the bottom of the ocean.

And then stay there. Forever. And rust.

Chapter Text

He used to herd his siblings into their room together and shove a wooden plank, broken off the rickety bedframe long ago, under the door handle. “You must be silent,” he always told them, smiling, and they would inevitably start to giggle with delight and cover their mouths desperately. “Stay quiet, or King Richard will get you.”

They were playing that they were the Princes in the Tower, and their wicked uncle Richard was stalking the halls, trying to find them. If they made a sound, he would catch them, snatch them up and then God-only-knows; so they had to hide, and be silent. Harry grew to love the game so much that he often took his older brother by the hand and begged, “Tower, Ned! Let’s play Tower, please, please!”

When they got a bit older, his sister Gertie sat beside him at the table one day and looked him right in the eye. “Tower,” she said, and Ned froze. “It wasn’t a game, was it?”

“No,” he said, because it wasn’t. His siblings never noticed that they only played Tower when their father or mother came home shouting, screaming, promising that when they caught the children, it would not be pretty.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have lied to you,” Ned told his sister, and she quickly shook her head.

“It was good of you, Ned. And it kept us safe. It worked.”

That was true. It always had worked. Of that, at least, he could be proud.

He thought about Tower sometimes, even after all these years, when he was in the most harrowing of situations. During a particularly bad shelling courtesy of the Germans, for example; or in that prison cell behind enemy lines with Baldrick, when their little flirtation with becoming twenty-minuters went horribly wrong; or the time he’d faced the firing squad for shooting and dining on General Melchett’s favorite pigeon. And now.

He didn’t think he had ever felt as low and afraid as he did now.

He thought about Tower, and wished he ever—just one time, in his entire pathetic life—had the luxury of being the one protected from fear. To his siblings, it was all a game, the same way that this damned war was just a game for people like George and General Melchett, who didn’t understand and didn’t bloody have to. That’s what people like Edmund were for.

It was selfish—and just damned stupid, besides—but sometimes he wished anybody would ever play Tower for his sake.

After his fateful encounter with the general’s secretary, Edmund did not speak for several days. Mary changed his bandages and brought him meals and tried to draw a word out of him at first, but quickly realized there was no use. He knew she must have gathered, immediately, that her grand plan for him and Captain Darling had not gone as hoped; but she said nothing. He wasn’t sure whether that irritated the life out of him or made him immensely relieved.

He listened, day in and day out, while the nurses and the soldiers fawned over the child, around whom all their lives seemed to revolve. There was nothing much else to listen to. Sometimes one of the men would catch a few seconds of music while turning the radio dials, and they would all rejoice at the momentary connection to life before all this. Other days were mail days, when they’d receive letters and goodies from their families, worried sick about their wounded boys. Edmund got packages and telegrams and letters a few times, always from Baldrick and George. Once, the private came back from the trenches for a visit, but Edmund pretended to be asleep until he went away.

At night, once the nurses and the child and most of the men were dreaming away, there would always be a smattering of whispers on the other side of the wall, dangerously quiet and breathless and giggly; Edmund could never tell if these sleepless soldiers were passing round pornographic pin-ups or making use of each other’s good company. Either way, it made him lonely. Excruciatingly lonely.

Almost two weeks had gone by before Darling finally kept his promise. He came back.

Edmund awoke in the evening, a book open on his chest and his glasses way down on his nose, pinching his nostrils shut. He could hear Darling’s voice, deep and clear and happy—quite happy, it seemed. And lovely. Of course. He pushed himself up from bed, carefully—he could do that now, without any help at all, and it was about bloody time—and hobbled to the office door, opening it and slipping into the hallway. Darling was sitting on an empty hospital bed, bouncing the child on his knee and making the little boy laugh uproariously; close by, Mary watched them, a sweet, quiet, blissful smile on her face.

“And you won’t guess what Jack did next,” said Darling, and suddenly the boy was all ears, as straight and attentive as a soldier. “He took that magic goose, and that beautiful harp, and all that lovely gold, and he chopped the giant’s beanstalk right down. And then he and his mother never had to want for anything ever again, because he was such a good and clever boy.”

The baby was grinning, laughing again—Darling was pulling silly faces—and Mary clapped her hands.

“Oh, bravo, bravo, Captain Darling! Eddy, wasn’t that a lovely story?”

“My mum used to tell me that one, Eddy,” said Darling. “I’m sure your mummy tells you lots of lovely stories, too. And you’ll always remember them.”

“Charming; really, very charming,” Edmund cut in, at last revealing himself. “But I believe you forgot the most important part, Captain Darling.”

“Oh? What’s that, Captain Blackadder?”

“Well, that they lived happily ever after, of course,” said Edmund, staring at Darling just a little too long; though, to be fair, Darling was staring right back. The child glanced up at his playmate curiously, as if waiting for another story, but Darling only smoothed down the boy’s dark curls and held him tighter instead.

“Now where,” asked Mary, “did you learn to be so lovely with children, Captain Darling?”

“Oh, good Lord, I’m not, really. It’s Doris, my girlfriend. She’s got loads of nieces and nephews...I like to play with them,” explained the general’s secretary. He was still staring at Edmund, whose heart was racing. “All to impress her, of course.”

Oh, good God. Edmund twitched between the legs.

“Well, my goodness, she must adore that. Now, come along, you.” Mary lifted her son from Darling’s arms, trying to pacify the boy when he strongly protested. “Edmund, Captain Darling had an important message for you. I’ll let you two be. Come along, Eddy; more stories later.”

They stared at each other for a few more seconds, and then it was a mad dash back to the office, and Darling slammed the door and locked it. Edmund used his one functional arm to grab the man and kiss him hard. “A lovely rendition of Jack and the Beanstalk, Darling,” he said, once they came up for a moment to breathe.

“Thank you.”

“Why did you stay away so long?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Mm. Have you missed me?”

“So—” Darling sighed as Edmund slipped his tongue inside his mouth. “Oh. So much. Blackadder, I...” He pushed him away, abruptly, and Edmund groaned.

“Oh, Darling, not this again. I won’t keep—”

“No,” exclaimed the man, pressing a kiss to Edmund’s lips, as if to reassure him he wasn’t going to run off again. It wasn’t enough. Edmund was afraid. “No, I...it’s just that...” He was starting to blush now, and he looked so sweet, and it made Edmund mad with desire. “I brought some...things. That we may need.”

“Oh?”

“Here.” Darling made his way to the bed, and poured an entire box out onto the sheets; Edmund raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. There, before him, lay what looked like a whole year’s supply of lubricant and condoms. He pulled Darling into his embrace and kissed him again.

“Well, well. I don’t suppose there’s any doubting what your intentions are here.”

Darling snorted, shyly, his tongue exploring Edmund’s mouth.

“Where in God’s name did you get all this? It looks like you raided the honorable Lord Flashheart’s personal collection.”

“Being entrusted with sending off the general’s supply lists has its advantages,” he explained, in between kisses. “The old blighter will never notice we were charged for an extra item or two.”

“Naughty boy. God, I like that.”

“I know.”

Edmund was swooning. The thought and effort Darling had put into this meeting, the fact that he had come hoping for, no, expecting sex—oh, it was too damn much. They sat on the bed together, and he left Darling’s lips and started working the man’s collar open with the one hand he had, kissing every inch of bare skin that was revealed to him. He nestled finally in the crook of Darling’s neck, and sucked gently—but persistently enough to leave a mark tomorrow. Just what he wanted. “Oh,” Darling cried out, gripping the back of Edmund’s head, clutching at his hair. “Oh...mother of Christ.”

“Don’t give her the credit,” said Edmund, satisfied when he heard Darling chuckle. “You want to moan someone’s name tonight?” He undid Darling’s trousers, positioned his hand just so. Darling was so ready—so, so hard, God, it made Edmund smirk, made him blush, made him tremble. “You’re going to moan mine.”

“Oh...my God. Blackadder...”

“No. No. Not Blackadder. I don’t want to be a Blackadder with you. Call me Edmund. Please.”

“Edmund, oh...”

“Yes,” sighed Edmund, peace washing over him. Darling grabbed his face, brought their lips back together; Edmund held him, touched him inside his underwear; Darling was whimpering, Edmund was panting, their mouths hardly kissing anymore, just pressed against each other, so warm and sweet, perfect. “Well, well, Darling,” he said once the man’s trousers were out of the way; he had to tease, or else he would betray how impressed—and, suddenly, inadequate—he felt. “I never would’ve figured you for such a big boy.”

“Shut up,” said the other man, even as he freed Edmund of his pajama shirt—taking such special care not to hurt his shoulder—and worshipfully kissed a collarbone, then a nipple, tugging gently at the dark hair on Edmund’s chest. “I...bloody hate you.”

“I know.”

“Edmund, please...God. I want you.”

“Have you ever had a man, Darling?”

“Kevin. Please, you should call me Kevin now. At least tonight.”

“Kevin, then. Kevin, my darling. Have you had men before?” He asked, but really, he already knew the answer. Of course he had—a man as delicate, bright, effortlessly flirtatious as Darling. He’d probably had many, more than Edmund even, perhaps.

But he shook his head. Edmund gave an incredulous stare, but still Darling insisted. “I’ve wanted—plenty, but...it’s not...you have to understand, in my family, it just—”

Edmund kissed him, deeply. “I don’t care,” he whispered. “I’ll take good care of you. I’ll be gentle.”

“I know you will.”

“You’re going to have to sit on me,” Edmund told him, getting immediately into the mechanics of the thing; he delighted at the slight blush that rose in Darling’s cheeks. “I can’t bloody hold myself up.”

“Of course...right. Of course.” Darling hurried to back off for a moment, then helped Edmund lie down in bed. “Are you comfortable, Edmund?”

“Not as comfortable as I’m going to be in a little while. Do you want to get yourself ready, or shall I do it for you?”

“Well...I’d like you to do it. Of course. Please.”

Edmund nodded, and grabbed around at the little pile of supplies nearby, finding at last a little jar that was just what he needed. “I’d be delighted. Come; first kiss me one more time,” he asked, and Darling did.

“I’m going to be kind to you,” promised Blackadder, and he meant it—with all his heart, he meant it. What choice did he have but to be kind, when Darling was so helpless now—so sweet and compliant and pleading for him, almost crying in his desperation—his curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, eyes wide and shining? “I’ve wanted this,” he whispered in his lover’s ear, and Darling let out a single sobbing moan. “Wanted you, Darling. All the times I bullied you, humiliated you, tried to have you killed...”

“Me too. Me too. Now please. Just bloody get on with it.”

Edmund smiled, and nodded. At a time like this, when pride and dignity were all but impossible, it was easy to be kind.

“They’re in Mary’s top desk drawer,” instructed Edmund. He hated for Darling’s warmth to disappear even for a few seconds, but he couldn’t do without his post-lovemaking smoke.

“Ah, here, yes. Christ, she’s got enough to supply the whole damn army for the rest of the war. Alright—no, you stubborn one-armed bastard, let me light it for you.”

Edmund smiled, sighing in heavenly contentment, for now there was a cigarette hanging from his lips and a man’s body wrapped round his own. They were spent and sweaty and out of breath, curls all a wild mess and limbs still trembling. How safe this was—how wonderful. Darling rested his chin on Edmund’s shoulder, nibbling on his earlobe, holding him tight round the waist; Edmund played with the light hairs on his companion’s arms, toying with the idea of asking something again.

In the end, he decided to go for it. At this point, he did not have much pride left to lose. “Kevin,” he whispered—and God, the man’s given name still felt so odd rolling off his tongue— “I really would like to know.”

“Know what, sweet.”

“Why did you...I mean, why the devil did you run out that night? Why did you take so long to come back? I damn well might’ve jumped off a bloody bridge if there were any close by; that’s how much that bloody hurt.”

Darling sighed, pressed his lips into Edmund’s neck. “I don’t know. I don’t know why.”

“Got to do better than that, Darling.”

“I’m...not like you, I suppose. You accept yourself. Not just in this way—everything about you. And as much as that contributes to you being an egotistical, self-obsessed, narcissistic prick—”

“Well, thank you, Darling.”

He felt the man laugh softly into his skin. “I mean to say that it’s also admirable. And I envy you. I don’t know how to accept myself the way you can. And I suppose...as much as I’ve wanted this, for so much of my life...I became really bloody good at pretending I didn’t.”

It was a satisfactory answer. In fact, it was a perfect answer. Edmund wanted to tell Darling that he did, in fact, understand what it was like to lie to yourself—when you were afraid, what else was there to bloody do?—but he reached back to hold the man’s curly head instead, playing with his soft locks, scratching his scalp. “You’re losing hair, aren’t you, Kevin,” he said, upon feeling bare skin under his fingers.

“Oh, shut the hell up, Blackadder! That’s none of your concern.”

“It is now. Anyway, I like it.” Edmund sat up against the wall and pulled Darling into his lap, planting kisses on the top of his head. Darling cuddled closer, so eager—good Lord, this man was starved for affection. That reminded Edmund of something else he had been wondering, wondering for years now. “Tell me, Kevin. What about this girlfriend you talk about, then? Is she even real?”

“Doris? Well, of course she’s bloody real!”

“Allow me to rephrase. I don’t doubt that there exists, somewhere in England, a woman named Doris who—perhaps—you’ve met. But is she your girlfriend, Darling?”

“I...well. Not exactly.”

“Ah. Mm-hm.”

“It’s not what you think,” added Darling hurriedly. “I suppose you’d call her my closest chum. A family friend—I’ve known her all my life. We tried to be more, a long time ago now, but found we just weren’t...what the other was looking for.”

“Naturally, on your part; you like boys. What, so does Doris like girls, then?”

“Christ, Blackadder. That’s really not any of your business.”

Edmund grinned, sensing that he’d received his answer. He traced Darling’s eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, each freckle on his cheeks, his mustache. Darling’s eyes were fluttering shut—he had to be exhausted, the poor dear thing—though he had made Edmund swear not to let him fall asleep here, saying something disturbing like “the general will court martial me if I’m not there to apply his nighttime mustache cream.”

But he looked so beautiful, so terribly at peace. It filled Edmund’s heart up with a sensation he didn’t really recognize—or if he did, he had long since forgotten what it was. “Stay with me,” he whispered, but it was so quietly that Darling didn’t hear him.

“We do have a pact though—me and Doris. If we haven’t found love by the time we’re fifty, then we’re going to marry each other. Just...you know. For appearances.”

“Ah. A most cunning plan.”

“So now I must write to her,” said Darling, sitting up suddenly; Edmund sighed, missing his warmth. But Darling—Kevin—was smiling, sweetly and beautifully, as he looked into Edmund’s face. “Because it’s not going to be necessary.”

He was kissing Blackadder, hard and long, before Edmund could protest. He supposed he didn’t really care to, anyway. Let the poor man have his fantasies of love and romance and happily ever after if he wished; all that mattered to Edmund tonight was that he did not feel afraid. Towers, beanstalks, making love—it was all the same, wasn’t it, really?

Chapter Text

He soaked in the bath, careful to keep his bandaged shoulder from getting wet, best he could. Mary had come into the office this morning and informed him that he was cleared, at last, to bathe himself, and he was sure that simple soap and water must never have felt so good.

He remembered baths in his earliest years, smashed into the kitchen sink with a little sister or two. He liked to fill his cheeks with water, screw his lips up into a spout, and spit it all back out, trying to make his mum laugh. When he was small, she always did, then scooped him into a towel, and rubbed his back, and set him by the stove to get warm.

The older he got—and the more like his father; that’s what it really was, he knew—the harder it became for him to make her happy, until before long it wasn’t possible at all. Sometimes he missed making her laugh. Sometimes, he even missed the way it felt when she rubbed his back.

But he’d never admit that. Probably not even to himself, really.

Now, there was a light knock on the door, and with eyes still shut tightly, ears buried under the water, he called “come in.” The door opened, and when there was no introduction he uttered “I’m alright, Mary—haven’t drowned myself. No need to check in every thirty seconds.”

“It’s me, Blackadder,” said another voice, not the one he was expecting; but it sent a thrill through him which he tried to conceal. He sat up a bit, wincing as he attempted supporting half of his weight with his bad arm; his visitor rushed to his side and kneeled by the tub, and helped him.

“I’m quite capable, I assure you,” said Edmund hurriedly; and then, he sighed. “Thank you, Darling,” he added, so quietly he almost hoped the man wouldn’t hear, but Darling’s lips twitched up into a slight smile.

“How does it feel today?” He asked, gently, nodding in the direction of the bandages.

“It feels fine. How are YOU feeling, Darling, is the real question. You should really be the one having a healing soak, not me.”

Darling’s cheeks piqued red, and Edmund felt his heart start to race. “I had a bath back at HQ last night,” the man said, sheepishly, like an inexperienced yet flirtatious youngster. Like they hadn’t been, quite literally, together last night—like Edmund wasn’t intimately acquainted with every squeaking noise Darling made in the most vulnerable moments, the way his chest flushed pink, the endearing little freckle right above his bottom. “And another this morning,” he added, blushing harder, and Edmund smiled.

“Are you sore?” He whispered, lifting his hand to finger through the curls on Darling’s forehead.

“No. No, not really. You were…very gentle.”

“Good. Good.”

Darling hid his eyes from Edmund and looked down at the bath water instead. It was hardly an innocent, shy averted gaze; he was surveying Edmund’s body, Blackadder could tell. He kept playing with Darling’s hair, eventually focusing his grip on the back of the man’s head, massaging his scalp. That bare spot again, only this time Darling didn’t mind. His eyes fluttered shut and he yielded to the attentions, pushed back against Edmund’s hand for more contact. “What a good boy,” whispered Blackadder, and he heard Darling whimper quietly.

“I meant what I said, Darling,” he continued, supposing he might regret saying so much, but not really finding it in himself to care—not with the way the object of his desire was submitting to him, reveling so unashamedly in his touch right now. “Last night, that is. I meant it.”

“I know, Blackadder.”

“I’ve wanted you for a long while.”

“I know. So have I.”

“I’m just sorry it took...all this,” he laughed a little, and motioned round them at nothing, “to do something about it.”

“Me too,” said Darling, grabbing Edmund by the shoulder—the intact one—and kissing him. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Don’t apologize. Not when you’re kissing me like that.”

“Oh, God,” giggled Captain Darling, when their faces bumped awkwardly. “Has anyone ever told you what a bother your big nose is when they’re trying to bloody kiss you?”

“Mm…just about everybody, in fact.”

Darling’s eyes softened, and he looked away again, for just a moment. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Edmund waved it off.

“When you say it, I like it. Come, then, Darling. Why don’t you get in with me.”

“Oh, I…I couldn’t. The nurses said you must have a bath…to yourself. I shouldn’t have intruded. I—”

“Don’t be so coy, Darling; I know what you came in here for. Anyway, there’s little point in being shy anymore. You do remember that I was inside you last night?”

Darling blushed, again; God, Edmund really loved that. Really, really bloody loved it. “Yes, I…I don’t think I could forget that.”

“Deep inside you, in fact. Making you squirm, cry, plead, say my name…”

Predictably, Darling obeyed. He let his uniform fall to the ground and climbed in, four long legs now crammed into the tiny tub. Edmund opened his arms, and Darling crawled there, lying on Blackadder’s chest. Edmund played with the man’s curls, now damp and springy.

“You know I love you,” uttered Darling. “I bloody love you, though I wish I didn’t.”

“Shh,” Edmund whispered, soothingly, as he moved his hand to rub Darling’s back. “You’re a good boy. You’re a good boy. There, there, now.”

And Darling snuggled closer.

Against all odds, he was on the mend. “Never count a Blackadder out, Mary,” he teased her, one of the many times that she expressed amazement at his shoulder’s healing powers. “I’m not finished being a complete and utter bastard in this life just yet.”

“And how lucky we are for that,” she said, while he offered his cheek for a kiss. Of course, busy though she was tending to the needs of others, she gave it.

George returned from his absurdly lengthy Parisian vacation with a healthy tan and a massive bouquet of flowers for his captain. They were significantly wilted by now, but it was just as well; Baldrick misunderstood the purpose of the daffodils and fed them to his pet-of-the-week—a sickly squirrel this time, who was curled up always in the private’s jacket pocket—shortly after their arrival at the hospital to visit Blackadder.

“Oh, never mind about the flowers, Private Baldrick,” said George, only after Edmund watched the internal struggle play out on the lieutenant’s expressive face, trying to decide whether he was angry with the little batman or not. As could almost always be said of him, George took the high road.

“Well, thank you very much, Lieutenant George. And Sammy the squirrel thanks you very much, too.”

“Ah, well, that’s alright, Sammy, old chappy. What really matters is that we’re all here, together, eh, cap? Crikey, sir, you look well!”

“Sammy says thank you, lieutenant!” Exclaimed Baldrick, petting the vile little thing on the head. “How kind of you to say. I think he looks well, too.”

“Oh, God,” sighed Edmund, “business as usual, I suppose.”

“Mary seems to think I’ll be out of here in just over a week,” he told Darling one evening, as they lay all in a tangle catching their breath, Edmund’s head still comfortably between his lover’s legs. “Then we’ll have to move our little appointments to HQ, I’m afraid. Unless you want me to teach you the art of trench shagging. It’s alright, but quite muddy.”

“For God’s sake, Blackadder; don’t call them ‘appointments.’ It’s so crude.” Darling grabbed a fresh cigarette, but allowed Edmund to light it for him. He’d been practicing, getting his right arm ready for combat, slowly but surely. “There, you’ve done it. Well done, Edmund.”

Edmund flushed a little, but dared not say anything.

“Anyway, why the devil do you want to go back to the trenches? You know, with a wound like this, you could easily ask for an honorable discharge. Melchett probably wouldn’t go for it, but I could go over his head if you’d like.”

“You wouldn’t do that for me.”

“Who says I wouldn’t? Don’t be stubborn, Blackadder. You know you don’t want to go back. I mean, Christ. Haven’t you spent the last three years trying to get out of it, at any cost?”

“Perhaps, but what the hell else is there for me to do?” Edmund sat up, massaging Darling’s calves gently and earning an appreciative groan. “If I’m not mistaken, Darling, you seem rather personally invested in my keeping out of the war. Any particular reason for that?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Edmund leaned forward and pressed a quick peck to Darling’s bellybutton, then began to get up, mumbling that he was going to the lavatory; but Darling caught his arm. He turned and looked at the man quizzically, and Darling, perhaps thinking he’d been too rough, turned Edmund’s wrist over and kissed the palm of his hand.

“What is it, Darling? Hurry and out with it, Kevin; I’ve got to go.”

“Are you going to talk to Mary?” Whispered the other man, tenderly, staring up at Edmund with agonizing sweetness. Good God, why did he insist on looking so enticing while he was being such an irritant? Edmund rolled his eyes.

“Talk to her about what? I talk to her every day. You want me to tell her about us, Darling? Believe me, for reasons I don’t want to get into just now, she knows all about—”

“About her son,” interrupted Darling, and it shut Edmund up like nothing else could have. “About your son. Edmund. Please.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Please, what? What are you pleading for? Did she ask you to do this?”

“No! She doesn’t bother about it!” Exclaimed the man, suddenly impassioned, his eye beginning to twitch; it almost frightened Edmund to see him this upset. “She’s been incredibly understanding, if you ask me, letting you off easy while you behave like a perfect cad—”

“Charming, Darling. Out of my bed.”

“Edmund, please. I...I didn’t mean that. I only mean...if you don’t, Edmund, if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

“Hmm. And what makes you think that?”

“I know you,” insisted Kevin, eyes huge and twitching, both hands wrapped around Edmund’s now. “Come, Edmund. Sweet, Edmund, you know I do.”

“Oh, do you? Look, Darling, you’re ‘so lovely with children.’ Why don’t you go on and be his loving daddy?”

“I don’t want you to regret this, Blackadder.”

“Duly noted. Now bugger off.”

Darling sighed, and seemed inclined for a moment to be defiant and resist, refuse to leave or move at all. But Edmund stared him down, and—still, after all that had changed between them—that worked like a charm. He fled, and Edmund groaned and got back in bed, forgetting all about having to visit the toilet.

The truth was that he didn’t need the meddlesome reminder from Darling; he’d spent much more time than he would care to admit, over these last several weeks, wondering what he should do. About Mary’s child, that is. About his son.

He tried to be logical, the way he could be about everything else—totally and completely unbiased. Unaffected by the way he’d been brought up, or the things he’d seen, or the views he had of himself and the world. But contrary to what he had imagined—foolishly, he knew that now—it wasn’t easy for one to remain logical, unbiased, or unaffected when there was a miniature version of oneself toddling about, with a beating heart and wide curious eyes and a tiny soul to consider. In fact, it was damn near impossible.

No, he hadn’t expected that.

He tried to reason it all out one afternoon, and because Baldrick happened to be there visiting, he reasoned it aloud to him. “Logically,” he said, trying with some effort to shave while Baldrick held up a mirror, “I know that nothing about this makes any damn sense. There’s a war on. My place is in the army; we’re in the bloody trenches. You can’t very well raise a child in the trenches, can you?”

“Well, I don’t think so, sir.”

“No.”

“But, all due respect, sir, I suppose there won’t always be a war on, will there?”

“I don’t know, Balders. The way things are going, it shows no sign of slowing up until anything north of Antarctica that breathes has been machine-gunned to death.”

Baldrick grimaced a little; Edmund changed the subject. Back to the most pressing matter.

“Logically, I know he’s happy with his mother.”

“Nurse Mary’s a brilliant mum, sir.”

“Mm. And I wonder what would be the benefit to him, really, if a strange man were suddenly, now, introduced into his life. Especially when—let’s be realistic here, Balders—knowing me, I’ll just disappear out of it again.”

“Careful, sir,” exclaimed his batman, for Edmund had just nicked himself with the razor.

“And that brings us to the final point.”

“What’s that, Captain B?”

“That I didn’t want to be a father.” Edmund took the handkerchief that Baldrick was offering and pressed it to his bleeding cheek. The private lowered the mirror and watched him, expectantly and innocently, his eyes wide behind his little glasses. Edmund sighed. “MY father. I didn’t want to be my father.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why would you be your father, sir? Your father’s your father. You’re you.” Baldrick thought for a moment, his brow furrowed, jaw slack, eyes squinted. “Have I got that right?”

“You do,” said Blackadder. And he thought about Darling—what Darling had said, that first night. You aren’t them, you know. “Baldrick, you’re the second person to tell me something to that effect. Though, admittedly, the first said it much more eloquently.”

“I don’t know what that means, sir.”

“I know. Thank you, Balders. I think you’ve helped me come to my decision.”

Baldrick flashed a proud smile. Sammy the sickly squirrel, still clinging to life, chirped contentedly in the private’s pocket.

It was late; all the others were asleep. The hospital was still, perfectly so. For the first time since he’d arrived here, he cast aside his ratty pajamas and put on his uniform—an officer’s dress uniform, cleaned and pressed and brought here by Captain Darling. “You might want it,” the general’s secretary had insisted, and at the time Edmund laughed at him. But he was right after all.

Darling was usually right after all. Edmund promised himself that he would tell Kevin that later—if he felt in the mood to stomach such a blow to his own pride, anyway. He’d been doing plenty of that lately.

Now, dressed to the nines and finally feeling, after so long, like a soldier—like a man—again, he stepped out of the office and closed the door quietly behind him. He shook out his bad arm, smoothed his hair, went down the hallway, and there they all were: the other soldiers, lined up in their beds, fast asleep; the nurses, huddled in the corners, dozing with books and newspapers and needlepoint in their laps; and Mary. Mary, sitting up in a chair, quite awake, feeding her child.

“Well, well, look at you,” she said, eyebrows raised, an impressed smile on her face. “Where in the world are you off to looking so handsome, captain?”

“I’m not off anywhere,” he told her, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward. He swallowed, cleared his throat, prayed she’d detect what he wanted and swoop in to save him; but she said nothing. She just kept smiling at him, though the good-natured amusement in her face implied she knew more than she was letting on; he hadn’t told her, but she could tell. Of course she could.

But she wanted him to work for this—to figure it out himself. And that was only fair.

“First impressions are important, I suppose,” he said, motioning to his uniform and then to the child. And then he instantly wanted to whip out a revolver and turn it on himself because good Lord, that was the best he could come up with? Who the devil was he, George? Baldrick? Melchett, for God’s sake?! “Oh, God,” he mumbled to himself, and she laughed softly.

“You’re doing just fine, Edmund. Here. Come.”

He took a quick breath of relief, and then nodded, approaching with care. A single streak of lamplight illuminated her face, tired but bright, her eyes shining. Her hair was down, curling loosely over her shoulders, and she held a blanket over her child as he nursed. He was sure she had never looked so beautiful, and he would’ve been content to abandon his mission in favor of just staring at her, the way she was right now—exhausted, happy, peaceful, brilliant.

But she held him to the task at hand, lifting the blanket away from the baby to reveal his tiny face. He looked almost asleep, his eyelids lifted just enough to offer a glimpse of his clever dark eyes.

Actually, they weren’t as dark as Edmund had thought at first. They looked almost the same color as Mary’s.

“Your eyes,” he said eagerly, without really thinking first. “His eyes look like yours, don’t they?”

“A little, I suppose.”

And Edmund laughed, happily—really laughed.

“He likes you,” whispered Mary. The baby was staring upward, watching closely as Edmund placed a gentle hand on Mary’s arm.

“I think he just wants me to get away from his mum.”

“No; I know that look, believe me. This isn’t it. Isn’t that right, Eddy.”

“You’re a fine chap, Eddy,” he said, strange as it felt calling him that. “Apologies it’s taken me this long to introduce myself.”

He watched while Mary gave the child his bath that night, late, two little lamps on and the water filled with bubbles. The baby—tall for his age, according to his mother—used not the sink but the big tub, and paddled about like a slick little fish, coming up every so often to get a breath and give Mary a crooked smile. At her encouragement, Edmund cupped his hands and rinsed the soap from the boy’s wet curls; Eddy watched him curiously. Mary lifted her baby from the bath and kissed his cheeks, rubbing his plump back, and Edmund—terribly scared, but happy, terribly happy—kept the image safe in his heart.

Chapter Text

There were no more excuses to be made. “I couldn’t be more healed if Hippocrates himself put on a surgical gown and made me his pet project,” he told Mary. “If I stay hidden away in here forever, I’m no better than Madman Melchett and Half-Witted Haig, am I?”

“Why must it always be a competition with you men?” She asked, gently peeling away his bandages for what, he made her promise, would be the last time. “Who gives a toss whether you’re no better than them?”

“Well, I bloody do, of course.”

“I’d rather you just be alive, Edmund,” she said, in earnest. It caused him a brief twinge of guilt; but he was a soldier, and had always been a soldier, and he was used to saying goodbye.

On his last day in the hospital, the nurses gifted him a homemade fruitcake, which he shared with George and Baldrick—partly out of the goodness of his heart, but mostly because it tasted only slightly better than Baldrick’s own baking. They sat on the floor of Mary’s office together, ripping great big hunks off the monstrosity and forcing it down.

“Come here, Eddy, old chap. Have some cake, dear lad,” said George, as he held out a tiny piece. The baby was lying on his belly close by, pushing round a toy automobile and making engine noises with his little pouty lips. George had written to all his young cousins and requested they mail along any unwanted toys, and nearly overnight Eddy had amassed an enviable collection—of spoiled little rich children’s expensive things, no less.

“He doesn’t want that any more than you do, George,” said Edmund, watching in amusement as the little boy took the cake in one chubby little hand and smelled it warily. “You don’t need to eat that, Eddy.”

“I wish Eddy could come back to the trenches with us, sir,” sighed Baldrick wistfully. “I’d sure like to make him my chocolate pudding surprise.”

“I think he can make your chocolate pudding surprise on his own, Balders. All he’d have to do is scoop the contents of his dirty nappy into a bowl.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll leave the recipe with Nurse Mary just in case.”

“Oh, won’t she be delighted.”

“And what about,” said George, playing alongside the baby now, “when we go over the top and straight into Berlin to show Jerry what jolly good British spunk really looks like?”

“George, I don’t think I want to know what the devil you’re talking about, but I suppose I have no choice but to ask.”

“When we win, cap! When we win! What, then, for you, Eddy? There won’t be any more field hospitals for you to live in once we’re victorious, I suppose.”

“I suspect that it’s back to England, then,” said Edmund. “For all of us. Eddy will get a proper nursery, no repulsive half-dead soldiers decaying around him all the time. And you, lieutenant, will return to mumsy and the little cousins and all the Cambridge prats—the ones who haven’t managed to get themselves shot to death, that is—and it’ll be all cricket, tea time, polo, the lot. Baldrick will be back in his enclosure at the zoo, munching on rats—so, not too terribly different from his life now. And I’ll…well, I’ll find something to do.”

“You going to marry Nurse Mary, Captain B?”

Edmund laughed, briefly. “I don’t think so, Baldrick. She’s got some say in the matter, you know.”

“Well, she loves you, sir.”

“YOU love me, Baldrick. You’re not walking down the aisle toward me, are you?”

Baldrick blinked for a few seconds, apparently having to think very hard about the correct answer to that. “No, sir,” he said at last. The baby stumbled over on unsteady legs, and Baldrick opened his arms, smoothing down the boy’s curls when he fell into his lap.

“Quite right. But, of course, all these lovely plans will be for naught if we’re slaughtered tomorrow.”

“Oh, rather, cap, forgive me, but come off! As if we’d ever lose to the villainous Hun! Not with Blighty’s top-level battle plans, no, sir!”

“Battle plans?” Said Edmund. “Who told you we have battle plans, George?”

“I sure wish we could just forget all the fighting and go home, sir,” said Baldrick, allowing the child to inspect each of his fingers as if he were a fascinating science experiment. “No more fallen soldiers like dear Sammy the squirrel.”

“Oh, pity, Balders. Sammy, too?”

“Unfortunately, yes, Captain B. Just yesterday. Back in London, I could’ve taken my chum Sammy to a good doctor and got him healthy. And we could get Eddy home right now to his proper nursery.”

And suddenly, for the first time all afternoon—perhaps in all his life—the little private was making sense. Eddy stood and wrapped his arms round Baldrick’s neck.

George and Baldrick went back in the car with Bobbie Parkhurst, but Edmund elected to follow later. Considering what had happened the last time he took Bob’s automobile, he wasn’t exactly eager to jump back into it.

Anyway, he had some unfinished business here.

“We’re going to have to speak frankly,” he told Mary, as they sat side by side on the bed in her office. Good God, this bed. If there were ever—for some damned reason—to be a museum dedicated to the life story of Captain Edmund Blackadder, this bed would be their most precious and provenanced artifact. What significant life event had NOT happened in this bed?

Mary was holding his hand. “Must we, absolutely?”

“We absolutely must.”

“Oh. Fine,” she sighed, only partway teasing. She tried to smile at him, but had some trouble. He didn’t blame her.

“When the war is over, you write me. Let me know where to find you,” he said, not even bothering to breathe. He had to get this out. He needed her to know—to know that he was going to do the right thing. “Provided I make it out of here alive, I’ll come and make sure you’re both settled. And that you have everything you need. And then you will tell me what you want to do from there.”

“You needn’t worry about us, Edmund.”

Like she hadn’t even spoken, he charged on. “If I don’t make it out of here alive—which, to be perfectly honest with you, is the more likely eventuality—”

“Edmund.”

“—then I’d like you to write to my sisters.” He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket, one he’d scribbled on last night as he prepared for this moment, and placed it safely in her hand. “Much can be said about the sort of man I am, as you know. But one thing I always did well was be a brother. They’ll be delighted to help you—and they’ve got the means. Married up, that is. Gertrude’s a duchess now, or a baroness, one of those—doesn’t make any damn difference; and Caroline’s in America with some formidable railroad tycoon. They’ll send you money, so that Eddy can live comfortably.”

“Edmund. Really, Edmund, all this isn’t necessary. It’s very kind of you, but—”

“Mary. Mary, you’ve got to promise me. Please. That you’ll write them.” When her expression remained unchanged, he squeezed her hand in both of this. “Mary,” he whispered, “let me do right by you. After all this. Let me.”

It was without a word, but she nodded. And that was enough. He sighed, and pressed his forehead to hers. “Good,” he uttered, and she nodded again.

“And what about,” she said, slowly, quietly, “if we both die, Edmund?”

“You’re not going to die, Mary. What the hell are you talking about?”

“This is war, Edmund. You said we needed to speak frankly. I’m speaking frankly.”

He stared at her, her clever, gentle, beautiful light eyes—Eddy’s eyes. “You don’t have anyone back home,” he whispered, more a statement than a question, for he already knew the answer.

“No. God—no. No one I would trust him with. I don’t…I don’t even want them to know he exists.”

“Mm-hm. Right.” He paused for a moment.

And he prayed she wouldn’t tease him for this.

“Captain Darling,” he said, finally, and firmly now. “I’d like Captain Darling to take him, then. Ideally.”

To his relief, she nodded, in perfect seriousness. “I would, too.”

“I’ll ask him. When next I see him, I’ll ask. He’ll be glad to—I think.”

“Thank you, Edmund.”

He hesitated for a second, wondering how to approach this. It was a big ask, and an odd one; but it was important. Incredibly important. He sighed, and plunged in. “Mary, I wanted to ask you one more thing.”

“Anything. What is it?”

“Does Eddy have a second name?”

Now, she did laugh at him. “What…don’t only the nobility do that? Two names?”

“Perhaps. But if it makes no difference to you, I’d like to give him a middle initial.”

“Just…just an initial?”

“Just an initial, yes.”

She smiled, pressing her fingers into the back of his neck, stroking the soft hairs there. “Of course. After all, I got to name him. Why would I have any objection to your contributing a single letter?”

Internally, Edmund breathed a great sigh of relief. But outwardly, he betrayed nothing—no feelings. That was crucial right now. “Well, then, I’d like it to be H.”

“H. A perfectly lovely letter. Alright, then. Eddy H. Blackadder it is.” She raised her eyebrows at him, curiously, a little smirk playing about her lips. God, that smirk had gotten him into a lot of trouble. Now, their son had it, too. “You don’t want to tell me what the H stands for, Edmund?” She asked.

“Not just yet,” he told her. Perhaps, someday, he would.

One evening, he sat by his brother at the pond, lacing up their skates as loads of other children went round and round on the ice. He was home from school for a bit—temporary suspension—and Harry, perpetually dirty and hollow-eyed these days, had just finished a shift at the cannery. “You sure you aren’t too tired?” Ned asked, and as always, Harry just grinned and said of course he wasn’t; he’d been waiting all day long to play.

They were talking about nothing, laughing and teasing, and then suddenly Harry pointed at the bruise across Ned’s eye. “Did dad give you that?” He said, and his directness startled Ned, who was so accustomed to all the hush-hush subtlety and duplicitousness of boarding school that he’d nearly forgotten his brother was like this.

“What, this? No, no,” he said, affecting a little laugh. “Fight at school.”

“I saw him smack you the other day,” Harry insisted, refusing to just drop it. He never just dropped anything. “Why did he do it?”

Ned nearly answered, but then thought better of it. He shook his head. “No. It’s not important. I don’t want you to worry about it.”

“Is it because you got suspended?”

“Christ, Harry. I suppose so, yes. Dad’s not happy. But it’s alright. I probably wouldn’t be either, if I were him.”

“Were you gobbing off at that nasty headmaster bloke again?”

Now, Ned laughed for real. “You know me too well, don’t you, you damned scoundrel? I was, and the bastard suspended me for it this time. I’ve got him, Harry. I’m going to break him.”

“I’m glad you did it,” said the boy, wrapping an arm round Ned’s shoulders. The winter air bit at their cheeks and noses, and they watched as their breath danced before them in little clouds. Their skates were on, ready to go; but they didn’t get up. Not just yet. Their moments together were so rare now—so precious. Even if they were doing nothing at all. “Load of bollocks. I don’t know why dad wasn’t proud of you,” Harry added, after a long time, and Ned smiled.

“Well, thanks, Harry. But it usually doesn’t work like that when you’ve cheesed off the most important person in school and been thrown out. Disgrace to the family, and all that. Still. It’s too bad you aren’t my father.”

Harry laughed softly—his clear little laugh. It sounded like the bell that rang over the door when you entered a toy store, and suddenly you were out of the cold, and there was the shop owner asking what you needed, and the marbles and the spinning tops and the dollies on the shelves, and you were safe, and happy.

“Are you going to have children one day, Ned?” He pressed on, smiling now, his dark eyes shining in the waning light. “When we’re grown up?”

“Oh, God. No. No, I don’t think so.”

“I am,” said Harry, matter-of-factly. He got up, abruptly, and reached for Ned’s hand, for he still got nervous starting out, even though they’d been skating since they were tiny. Ned took it.

“Well, you’ll be a fine dad, Harry. You going to name your son after your favorite brother?” He teased, grinning, as they joined all the other children on the pond. At his side, Harry giggled.

“My only brother.”

“Well, quite.”

“Only if you have a son, too. And call him after ME.”

Ned laughed, and nodded. “Alright. Well, it’s only fair, I suppose. I’ll call my son after you, Harry.”

“You’d better, old man.”

“Oh, shush! Come, race me.”

And off they went.

Mary left him in the office alone with her boy to say goodbye. “It’s really not necessary,” he assured her—because he was bloody terrified, more than anything. What the devil was he supposed to say?! “He doesn’t even know who I am, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, he does, you silly boy,” she told him, smiling, beautiful and convincing as always. “Of course he does. He knew the first moment he saw you, believe me. A child knows.”

Who was he to argue with that?

So here he was, sitting on the floor beside Eddy’s bassinet. He leaned partway over the side while the boy sat looking at him, a King and Country magazine from George open on his lap and a slobbery hunk of fruitcake clenched in his little fist. Edmund nodded, then smiled, offering a hand as if this were a grown man to whom he was bidding farewell.

And Eddy took it, bright inquisitive eyes locked on Blackadder’s. The sight of the tiny fingers pressed against his own palm made Edmund shudder a little. So untouched by the world, every nail and knuckle still so achingly perfect—so beautiful, so innocent, so vulnerable.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he whispered, at last, hoping with all his might that no one—Mary especially—was listening outside the door. “I’m...I’m sorry, lad. I am.”

Eddy blinked, bringing his fruitcake up to his mouth and sucking on it. Edmund half-chuckled.

“Good Lord, you’re a difficult audience, aren’t you. Not even a smile?”

The baby raised an eyebrow, appearing thoroughly unimpressed; he did not extend to Edmund the obliging amusement that he afforded everyone else over the most trivial things. Father and son, it seemed, had an understanding. Now, how was it possible for a creature so young to exhibit such cynical judgment, Edmund wondered? He grinned, and felt himself fill up with what he supposed was extreme paternal pride.

“Look at you. You’re going to be just as much a bastard as the rest of us, aren’t you?” Laughed Blackadder, and finally, Eddy smiled—not his usual half-smirk, but a big bright grin, all gums and tiny front teeth. “That’s what I thought. Well, it’s just as well. You’re a lovely boy, Eddy. And I...” He faltered for a moment. What to say? What was there to say? His pulse quickened as the baby stood up and threw his arms round him, squeezing him close; it gave him the strength he needed. “I’m glad you’re...here, son. And I’ll do right by you. I promise.”

Eddy hugged him tighter, babbled something that sounded like “ear” as he stuck his finger inside one of Edmund’s.

“That’s right. You’re a clever chap, Eddy. A bloody clever chap. I know you don’t know what the hell I’m saying, but I’m not...sure what else to do. We’ve got to say goodbye somehow, I suppose.”

“Bye-bye,” said the baby, and Edmund sucked in a shaky breath. He lifted the child from his bassinet and held him tight—playing with his black curls, duckling-like in their softness—smelling his sweet, new skin—rubbing his back. One last time.

For now, he told himself. For now.

“Well, perhaps you do know, then. Goodbye, indeed, my boy. And you should know, I suppose, Eddy, that whatever you end up being, I’m...well, I’m quite proud of you.”

Absolute drivel, that was. But it was all drivel that he really felt. Truly.

He heard the baby crying when he left the hospital. And though he would never tell a soul, he couldn’t help but cry a little, too.

Back in the trenches, it was like no time had passed at all. He was faced immediately with cleaning up the messes, both figurative and literal, created by Baldrick during his absence; wrangling George in all his usual chaos; dodging bullets, enduring artillery fire, hoping there wouldn’t be an insane order to march straight into no man’s land, the whole damn lot. He had promised Captain Darling that he would make an appearance at HQ right after his triumphant release from hospital, but it was several days before he could get there.

And every night, curled up in his smelly bunk, covered in mud, he thought about Darling—the warmth of Darling’s limbs wrapped round him, the way Darling’s eye twitch was exacerbated when he came close to his grand finale, the soft and salty scent of Darling’s breath when he was sleepy. If he was lucky, he dreamed about him, too—though that made returning to the land of the wakeful all the more difficult, because he always opened his eyes to find Darling not really there.

And of course, there was the problem of having to ask him a question almost impossible in its boldness and importance.

Should something tragic—but entirely typical of this lovely little thing called war—befall both Edmund and Mary, would he consent to, oh, you know, raising a human being?

Well, in any case, today was the day; he’d made it to HQ at last. When he walked in, there was Captain Darling, behind his desk. It was a routinely mundane sight, but one that almost stopped Edmund in his tracks now; for he had entered this room and found the man just like this a thousand times, but not since everything between them changed. It made him feel cold, like their times together—all in the safe and otherworldly confines of the hospital, that room, that bed—had not been real, or else were not possible here, in the real world. Would Darling look up at him now and put on that familiar grimace, make a snide remark, tell Blackadder to sod off and get out? Would it be back to status quo, as if none of this had ever even happened?

It took him long enough, but Darling, at last, glanced up from his work and put a stop to Edmund’s damn worrying. He smiled, in an instant, and Blackadder knew that smile—that was a smile from the hospital, and not before. Darling stood and came round his desk, and Edmund met him partway, and then they were in each other’s arms. And all was right.

“Oh, my darling,” whispered Kevin, between kisses, pulling off Edmund’s hat to run a hand through his hair. “What took you so damn long?”

“My trench is in a state of anarchy. Teach me never to leave Baldrick there alone again.”

“That wasn’t really your choice,” said Darling, as he laughed softly. “Oh, sweet, you look so well. You look...beautiful.”

“I’ve missed you. I trust I’m not interrupting anything too important?”

“Oh, God, Edmund, no. No. The general can bloody well wait for his pencil inventory.”

Edmund grinned against Darling’s mouth. “You’re joking.”

“You know I’m not. Come, sweet, come sit. I want to do something for you.”

“Kevin,” scolded Blackadder, as the other man led him by the hand to sit in his desk chair. “Kevin, a grand welcome really isn’t necessary. A simple over-the-desk shag will be quite sufficient.”

“Well, later. Later, of course. But I want to do this for you first.” Darling was smiling mischievously, his eye twitching a little as he kneeled between Edmund’s legs and began to undo his trousers. “I’ve been...dreaming of tasting you again,” he said, and instantly blushed, making Edmund’s heart thud.

“Oh, come off. No, you haven’t.”

“Every...moment,” said Darling, burying his face in Blackadder’s lap now. Edmund watched the man take him all the way into his mouth, and then splutter, predictably. Edmund smirked, and placed a hand in Darling’s hair.

“Now, now, Darling. Don’t take on more than you can handle.”

As if urged on by the challenge—God, it was just like the old days in this room, all this silly competition between them, wasn’t it?—Darling glanced up at Edmund, gave a terrifically smug grin, and, with a firm grip on each of Blackadder's thighs, went right back down on him with reckless abandon.

“Christ, Darling! Someone’s a bit eager today, aren’t we?”

“Shut up, Blackadder. It’s your fault; you deprived me of this. Stayed away so long.”

“Well, as I recall, you did that to me first; so now we’re even. You know, Darling, you don’t—oh, my God,” he cried breathlessly, and felt Darling chuckle against his skin. He gripped the man’s curls and pushed him even further down. “Yes, there’s a good boy, now. Oh, God, Kevin...oh, my darling...baby...”

“Oh, God, I love watching you get off,” said Darling, moaning as if he were the one being serviced in this absolutely excellent manner.

“Less talking and more rogering with that pretty mouth of yours.”

“Quite right, Captain Blackadder,” the man assented, so obedient and sweet, and Edmund threw his head back and let his jaw go slack, not minding how many ridiculous and humiliating noises escaped from his lips.

Darling climbed into his lap when it was over, not bothering to put Edmund back in his trousers, still touching him though he was so sensitive by now that it nearly hurt. But Darling was kissing him, giggling “can you taste yourself,” and Edmund did not have the heart nor the will to complain.

“Isn’t Walrus-Face going to come in here at any moment,” whispered Blackadder, “and have us both court-martialed for unspeakable acts of the most vulgar variety between officers?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“Well, you say that now. But being court-martialed by General Melchett is not a very pleasant way to spend an evening, I assure you. In fact, if memory serves...you did your damnedest to have me shot for him, didn’t you, Darling?”

“Only because I loved you too damn much. Had to make you go away.”

“A feeble excuse, my darling.”

“I love you,” Darling exclaimed, passionately, into Edmund’s mouth. “I’d do anything for you. I hope you know that. Edmund, you know that, don’t you?”

“Well, good,” said Blackadder. “Because I’ve got rather a big favor to ask of you.”

“Oh? Anything.”

“In a bit. Kiss me a bit longer, and then I will.”

“I love you.”

“Stop bloody saying that, Darling.”

“No,” whispered Kevin, drawing back just enough to smile for a moment; and then he dove once more into Edmund’s mouth. Good Lord, so embarrassingly eager. It was insulting, just how darling he could be.

A most fitting adjective for a most lovable man.

The telephone rang on a Tuesday morning. It did not occur to Edmund until later that it was also on a Tuesday morning, and with the ringing of the telephone, that this had all started. It was almost like the last several months had never happened—that they were all transported back to that fateful day. If he could go back, just like that, would he do it all differently, he wondered?

Perhaps he would. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter much now, did it? Not after what Darling had to say.

“Is that Captain Darling, George?” Asked Edmund now, for as usual the ever-enthusiastic lieutenant had answered the phone. He was blubbering some rubbish about what a beautifully spiffing and spanking day had tally-ho pip-pipped its way into their lives this morning, and Edmund felt nauseous just thinking about poor Kevin having to endure such Georgeisms. “Come, George, hand it over, hand it over.”

“Yes, indeed, cap! Here he is, Captain Darling.”

“Sorry, Darling,” said Blackadder, pressing the telephone to his ear, already thrilling at the thought of hearing Darling’s voice. “I rescued you as soon as I could, but—”

“It’s not good, Edmund,” said Kevin, on the other end of the line, and Edmund could tell from the somber shakiness in his voice that he was not joking.

“Oh...? Does that mean what I think it does, Darling?”

“I...I’m afraid so. Tomorrow at dawn. You’re going over.” There was silence for several moments; Edmund couldn’t even hear Darling’s breath. There was only the sound of his own heart pounding. There was nothing else. “I’m so sorry, Edmund,” whispered Kevin, finally, and there was nothing to do but bloody laugh.

So he did. “Excellent. Excellent. Well, see you later, Darling. Goodbye.”

“Edmund, wait, I—”

Blackadder hung up the telephone and slammed it down onto the table. On the other side of the dugout, George and Baldrick were watching him expectantly. “Well?” Asked George, his innocent blue eyes filled with breathless anticipation.

“Gentlemen,” explained Edmund, his chest throbbing. “Our long wait is nearly at an end. Tomorrow morning, General Insanity Melchett invites you to a mass slaughter. We’re going over the top.”

“Oh, huzzah and hurrah, cap! Good Lord, oh, blimey! It’s time at last! Time to take down the hairy Huns! All the way to Berlin! Private Baldrick, this is it, this is bally well it!”

“But I don’t want to go,” protested Baldrick, speaking for the first time. “If we’re going all the way to Berlin, Captain B, how are we going to visit Eddy ever again?”

Edmund tried to sit down at the table, but really he fell, nearly missing the chair. Baldrick hurried to his side, exclaiming “is it your arm, sir,” but Edmund waved him off.

“I’m alright, Baldrick. For God’s sake, I’m alright. I’ll...I’ll have to call Mary. I’ll let her know that we’re...”

Going to die. That’s what he wanted to say—what he knew was true. But Baldrick and George’s innocent faces—the former filled with fear, the latter with hope—were glaring back at him, tearing through him, making him waver.

Really, they were reminding him of Eddy. Of Harry. That innocence—that trust. A thing to be protected at all costs.

And so, for what he supposed would be the final time, he decided to play Tower.

“That we’re off to Berlin,” he finished, and George cheered uproariously. Baldrick gave a faint smile. And Edmund put his head down on the table and tried, tried hard, to think. Perhaps there was a way to get out of this yet.

To be the first Blackadder father who didn’t leave.

Damn, when it had all, finally, begun to go right, could it really just be over?

Well, sure it could. If he'd learned anything, it was that the world was like that. Every chance it got.

Chapter Text

Darling woke up in bed, and instinctively groped about for Blackadder. He had grown accustomed to having him within arm’s reach, and though he should have realized immediately that that familiar warmth was missing, he could not help but hope.

But no—he was not there. Kevin squinted, tried to move but found that both legs felt numb to the point of sharp and almost painful tingling; he took a glance around instead. He was in bed, yes, but not his bed—not a bed he recognized at all—it was one of dozens, hundreds maybe, all lined up in neat rows under a high ceiling, probably once belonging to a church, but shot to bits beyond recognition now. A field hospital, perhaps? But not Mary’s, an unfamiliar one—a massive one. Each bed held a soldier, much like him, except that they were moaning in pain—covered in blood and bandages—blown to pieces—not really resembling living human beings at all anymore. It wasn’t until he heard nearby voices begin to exclaim “this one’s awake, he’s awake” that it occurred to him that he must be one of those unlucky men; he cast his eyes downward, slowly, nervously, and saw what was left of his legs. “Oh, no, no,” he muttered, and suddenly his eyes filled with tears.

But it was not for himself that he cried. He cried because he had remembered.

“Where are the others?” He screamed, clutching onto the first nurse who walked by; she stared at him, bewildered, terrified. “The other men in my—the men I went over with! Where—they must be here, right? Where are they?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know if—”

“What the devil do you mean you don’t know?!” He shook the girl, as hard as his diminished strength would allow, and she started to sob. “You don’t know who’s in your own damn hospital?! Everybody’s got ID tags, haven’t they?”

“Ideally, sir, yes, but—”

“Shut up and go find them, then! Captain Edmund Blackadder and his men. Go, go!”

Another nurse, an older and much more formidable woman, rushed over and pried Darling’s hands off the sobbing girl. He demanded answers, and kept demanding them, even as his wrists were restrained, suspicious liquids forced down his throat. He felt exhausted, suddenly, and returned to the nothingness where he wished he had stayed in the first place.

As the days went by things came back. He remembered pleading with the general as he was handed a commission for the front line—slinking like a bloody coward into Blackadder’s trench, his face still streaked with tears—trembling at the fear in Private Baldrick’s and even Lieutenant George’s faces—catching Edmund’s hand as they left the dugout. Readying his bayonet as Baldrick exclaimed that he had a cunning plan, but sounding hopeless, really, utterly hopeless. Edmund saying, as they waited for that final command, that unless he could think of something very, very quickly…

And then the whistle. And nothing after that.

They were all dead, as it turned out. Every single one of them.

He wanted to know how—if it was instant, right there on the battlefield, or if they suffered.

But no one had those answers for him. And so he lay in his hospital bed and dreamed up all the most horrific, unbearable, and devastating possibilities; he couldn’t help it.

“You afraid of death, Darling?” Edmund had asked him one night, their limbs all tangled and indistinguishable from the other’s, a cigarette hanging halfway out that beautiful pink and pouting mouth. And Kevin, thinking he must be joking, laughed at first.

He felt bad about that now.

When Edmund persisted, he squinted. “Well, of course I’m bloody afraid of it! Isn’t everyone?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, sweet Edmund. How manly and heroic of you,” he sneered, teasingly, as he kissed the corner of his mouth, but still Edmund was not laughing. “Well, why the devil do you bend over backwards to avoid it, then? If you’re not afraid?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t afraid. I am. But not of death.” He took a long drag, then blew the smoke out through almost closed lips. Darling, caring little for whatever nonsense he was going on about, turned his attentions instead to Blackadder’s beautiful form, pressing light kisses on a cheekbone, a shoulder, a bicep, a nipple. “Of pain, Darling,” the man continued, even as Kevin’s fingers roamed downward, tracing soft dark hairs, pausing inside Edmund’s bellybutton, stroking him gently where it should be most affecting. But still he went on. “And I don’t mean the excellent, absolutely smashing sort of pain YOU experience when I bugger you within an inch of your life, Kevin.”

Darling looked up, and now, finally, Blackadder laughed.

“Ah, that got your attention, didn’t it? Good Lord, Darling, if I’m not talking about sex, you don’t hear me.”

“I do! Of course I do,” said Kevin, desperately, coming up instantly to kiss Edmund’s mouth. “I’m sorry, Blackadder. I didn’t mean to make light of—”

“Oh, forget it,” interrupted Edmund, waving him off. “It’s all rubbish, anyway.”

He never brought it up again. And now, Kevin couldn’t even ask him about it.

Yes, he felt bad about that. And he was so, so afraid that Edmund had been in pain. That he’d had time to be scared.

There were letters from Doris, packages from his mother, a constant stream of telegrams from every single one of his sisters. Soldiers came and went around him—though most who went did so not by going home, but by dying. And being carted out like animals. The stench was foul; the air was thick; the wails and screams and sounds of artillery fire were ever-present. He lay in a stupor, day in and day out, unable to accept it. That he was gone.

Edmund was gone.

He would never see him again.

He was dead.

How? How was he just gone—there one moment, in the dugout, squeezing Darling’s hand and rubbing his palm with such gentle strength and assurance, as if to say “we’ll get out of this, Kevin, I promise, I’ll keep you safe,” and then the next moment lying in the mud, all the beauty and cleverness and confidence and life that made up who he was just drained from him?

It was so unceremonious. So useless. So wasted. All that Edmund had to offer—to the world, to his son, to Kevin.

To Kevin.

He would never see him again.

Ever.

It was slow-going, but he did recover. When he left, it was with permanent braces on both legs and on crutches, but at least he was leaving somewhat in one piece.

Much as he loathed the idea of going back there, ever, he had no choice but to return to HQ, to get his official discharge papers from Melchett and collect his things; and then it was back to England. Home. Whatever that meant now.

He hobbled out of the church, and there was Bob Parkhurst, to pick him up in her car. He sat in the passenger side, and without a word exchanged between them he fell into her arms, and she held him and did not seem to mind when he cried.

It was like limping right into hell—opening the door and seeing that office again. The fireplace, the couch, the footrest, the chair. His desk. “Isn’t it about time I bent you over this damned thing?” Asked Edmund once, and the memory now sent a thrill through Darling just as it had when he’d said it. “I mean, every time I ever came here, your eyes were practically pleading me…”

“I hate that you’re right about that,” he’d replied. “But I hate even more that you never just bloody did it.”

The smirk that spread across Blackadder’s face then, the way his tongue just barely slipped between his lips and licked them slow as he stared at Darling, drinking him in, savoring the moment—it was too sweet, too tantalizing, too wonderful.

Kevin stared at the empty room now, and he felt his knees start to buckle beneath him, his crutch catching the arm of the couch just in time. On the ride over, Bobbie informed him that Melchett already had a new secretary—some young and handsome bloke who was quick on his feet and obnoxiously eager to please. Darling didn’t have to meet the man to know he detested him, and prayed they wouldn’t cross paths while he pulled his things together.

Actually, that wouldn’t even be necessary. It was all gone, without a trace—as if he’d never even been here, let alone worked in the damn place for almost three years of his life. “Box of your rubbish by the door, Darling,” called a familiar voice, and as Kevin peered round the corner into the hallway, he came face to face with the only man he wanted to see less than the general’s new office-boy.

The general himself, of course.

“Well, hello, Darling,” said Melchett, and Kevin felt himself twitch a little to hear his name in the man’s voice again. “Now, why the devil have you been away so long? Honestly, Darling, I don’t think I’ve ever met such a lazy, good-for-nothing bumpkin in all my life.”

Kevin choked a little on his own breath, began to motion toward his obviously decimated legs, but thought better of it. There was little point. “Yes, indeed, sir,” he said, hating himself instantly for bowing to the general’s bullying—remembering Edmund, Edmund telling him “you shouldn’t let him do that, my darling,” Edmund kissing his twitching eye. In a fleeting moment of empowered courage, he stared the general down and demanded, “You packed all my things without me even here? While I was in hospital, for God’s sake?!”

“Kindly watch your tone! What the hell is the matter with you, Darling? Perhaps next time you’ll take care not to abandon your general, only to return once the war is nearly over!”

“Abandon you?! You’re the one who sent us into—”

But he stopped, suddenly—good as this felt—because there was something more pressing at hand. “Sir…” He said, slowly, straining his ears to determine whether he really heard what he thought he had. “Do you hear a…a child crying?”

“Well, of course I do! It’s that blasted ugly nipper with the hideous mole!”

Kevin felt his whole chest tighten, his jaw tense, his insides flutter with something, for the first time in so long, resembling hope. “A…a mole?”

“Yes, yes. They found him in the rubble when that field hospital blew up. God knows why the little blighter was there in the first place, but—”

“Wait, sir, wait! The…field hospital? The one just down the way from here?”

“Good God, you have been living under a rock, haven’t you, Darling? Yes! Terribly sad business, that. Every soldier, every single nurse…all dead. Those filthy, repulsive Huns, targeting a hospital like that with their wicked air corps! Baaaaah, it makes my blood boil!”

“Yes, sir, yes, indeed, but…” Kevin sighed, unable to ask all that he wanted to, unable even to find the words. His mind was racing, his heart pounding. He took a breath. “They all died, General? Except a child?”

“All dead, but for the miserable, stinky little sprog that they decided to deposit here. I’ve meant to ship him off to the nearest orphanage, but haven’t gotten around to it yet. I suppose perhaps today I can—”

“No, sir!” Exclaimed Kevin, shoving past the general on his crutches, fast as he was able. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll take him, sir. I’ll look after him. He’s in here?”

“Christ, you’re a peculiar one, Darling. Well, if you want to play nursemaid to the little brat, I won’t stop you. You always were a bit of a nancy boy, weren’t you? Rather raise babies than fight wars, eh?”

But Kevin didn’t really hear him. It didn’t matter—none of it did. He rushed down the hall, cursing his legs for slowing him down, for keeping him away even a second. “Eddy,” he exclaimed, slipping into the next room; and there he was, standing alone in the middle of the floor—massive compared to the last time Darling had seen him, tall and curly-haired and beautiful—and screaming, sobbing, face bright red and nappy soiled several times over. “Eddy, oh my God,” cried Kevin, falling immediately to his knees, not caring how much it hurt; his crutches clattered to the floor. “Oh, my God, Eddy, how long have you been here? What have you been through, you poor boy?”

The child flung himself into the arms open before him, and Kevin held his tiny shaking form—or perhaps he was the one shaking, he could not tell. “It’s alright now, dear boy,” he whispered, and the baby, burying his face in Darling’s shoulder, cried harder. “We’re going to go home. You’re going to be alright.”

“You Darling?” Asked a voice that he did not recognize, though he knew immediately who it must be.

“Yes,” he replied, without even looking, still just holding Eddy. He cared about little else right now. He imagined it may always be that way from now on. “Right; I’m Captain Darling. And you are? The new sod, I suppose?”

“Mm-hm, that’s me. General said you’re taking the kid—I thought you might want this.” At this, Darling turned round to take a glance; the young fellow tossed a small knapsack across the floor. “The blokes who found him brought this, too—load of baby things, it seems.”

“Just leave it. Leave us; go on.”

“Alright, alright; sorry. I’ll be off, then.”

Eddy’s sobs had slowed, and Kevin felt him cuddle into the crook of his neck. He shushed him gently, smoothing down his long black hair, and thought of something. “Wait,” he called, and the general’s secretary halted in the doorway. “Do you know anything about...how they found him? What state he was in?”

“Not a lot, but sure,” said the boy. “He was completely alright—not a scratch on him. They said he was protected from the blasts by...a nurse, I think. One of the nurses had jumped on top of him. He was underneath her.”

“Oh, Jesus. His mother. That would’ve been his mother. Oh, God, Eddy.”

The young chap’s eyes narrowed, and he gave Kevin a closer look. “Eh, you know this kid? The general kept saying he looked familiar. Is he yours?”

“No. A friend of mine’s. Good friend.”

“Right. Well, I’ve looked in on him much as I could since he got here. Fed him, and all that. I’m not really the nappy-changing type, sorry. Did it a few times. But he seems alright, eh?”

“Sure. Thanks very much. I won’t be needing anything else. Just leave my things by the door; we’ll be going soon.”

“Right-ho, Darling,” said the new fellow, and then, at last, he was gone. Eddy was quiet now, and still; Kevin peeked at his face, and his eyes were fluttering shut, his thumb in his mouth. He rocked the child gently, hummed some silly trench song that he remembered hearing George sing all the time, and reached out to open the knapsack.

There were a few nappies, toy automobiles, a bottle, tiny gowns which he had surely grown out of by now. And there was a piece of paper, scrawled all over with handwriting that Darling knew—that made his heart lurch inside his chest, his eyes sting a little. It was Blackadder’s—messy but not careless, bold and thick, all capital letters. And for a moment, it was like he was still here.

He pulled it out, and read closely—the names and addresses of two women, it appeared. Gertrude and Caroline. He flipped it over, and there was someone else’s penmanship, more feminine, and not any less self-assured. Mary’s? It could be no one else’s. “Eddy H. Blackadder,” it said, and that was all.

And Kevin smiled. He set Eddy on the floor, gently, and pulled a clean nappy from the knapsack. And then, once they were ready, they would go. Go home.

“I know it’s a...large favor to ask of you,” said Edmund, that first day he’d come to see Darling at HQ after leaving the hospital. They were lying on the floor under the desk, spent and sleepy with fingers interlaced, their calves brushing against each other. “To say the least,” added Blackadder, with a laugh. “The life-altering sort of favor, I suppose.”

“Please,” Kevin had assured him. “Don’t think on it. I’d be honored. Really.”

“Only if you’re...certain, Darling. You do know how embarrassing it is for me to ask such a significant thing of you.”

“Well, I can imagine.”

“The boy’s mother insisted, I’m afraid. Not my decision, of course; I would’ve chosen Baldrick. But once Mary’s made her mind up...”

“Oh, sod off,” laughed Kevin, shoving him. Edmund was smiling, and Kevin felt fit to burst with affection and wonder at how lovely, how perfectly lovely this man was; and he nudged Blackadder’s forehead with his own, then kissed him, long and sweet. “What a splendid twist of fate,” he whispered, as Edmund played with his curls, with all his usual tenderness and strength. “Imagine your sworn nemesis bringing up the next generation of Blackadders.”

“Oh, God, don’t put it like that, Kevin. If you do end up stuck with the little chap, promise me you’ll call him Darling, instead.”

“And curse another boy with my humiliating surname? I don’t think so. I like Eddy too much to do that to him.”

“If you knew anything about the Blackadders,” said Edmund, kissing Kevin’s cheeks, his ears, his jawline, “then you’d see that being teased a little is still highly preferable to being one of us, believe me.”

“I know enough,” Kevin told him, and held him tight. “I rather like Blackadders. In fact, I think they’re pretty wonderful sods.”

end

Blackadder! Blackadder! I thought that he had died!
Blackadder! Blackadder! Our writers must have lied!