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Chapter Text

December 1st, 1780

Mon-El was bored. Intensely, unequivocally bored.

He had already charmed most of the ladies in the room and roughly half of the men, following the same formula of well-placed compliments and witty remarks, some flirtatious winks in the ladies’ case—let them think they had all of his attention when in reality, he would rather be anywhere else. It was a formula Mon-El had perfected over years of high society life.

Every time he tried to break out of it by joking about his family’s constant need to show off their wealth, or his mother’s earlier tantrum over the tablecloths being the wrong color, all he got was a nervous chuckle at best and a fearful glance in his parents’ direction. Most of the partygoers appeared too afraid to dare speaking ill of his family whilst in their house, lest they incur his mother’s wrath—which he could certainly understand, having grown up with her, but it made conversation dreadfully bland. And besides, she wasn’t nearly as evil as she seemed. Vain and possessive of her riches, yes, but nothing like the monster some rumors portrayed her as. (Not in public, at least.)

And of course his friends had abandoned him, too, first for the refreshment table and then to try their hand at charming the girls he’d left behind. Traitors.

He climbed up to the next floor and gazed down at the full ballroom from a bird’s eye view, leaning against the balcony with a sigh. The blessed solitude didn’t last long, however, and he hastily straightened up when he saw his mother approaching out of the corner of his eye. “Having a good evening, Mother?” he greeted her half-heartedly.

Rhea scoffed at his attempt at civility, snapping her embroidered fan shut. “I should ask you the same, considering you seem to have no interest in the ball thrown for your benefit.”

“My apologies, Mother.” Mon-El gritted his teeth. “I simply desired a moment of peace. It has…been a long week.”

“It would have been shorter, had you found a bride by now.”

“Easier said than done,” he mumbled under his breath, only to shrink back at his mother’s glare.

“You will find a wife before you return to the war,” she hissed, advancing towards him. “Or your father and I shall have to choose one for you.”

“And why haven’t you?” he snapped, losing patience. “You’ve never cared about the importance of a happy marriage before, least of all mine! Why does it matter so much that I choose someone?”

“...Your father insisted,” she said scornfully after a pause, her anger dulled into sourness. “Any bride I chose would have to be approved by him, and Rao knows he’ll see through an arrangement. And so, a ball. If it must be a choice, at any rate, I’m hoping you’ll find someone sensible this time.” She threw him a dirty look.

Rhea was, of course, referring to his famously long list of lovers, mainly comprised of northerners, middle class farmers, abolitionists and sometimes men; in other words anyone he knew she would disapprove of. It was a game he played, a small way of rebelling against his parents in a world where he didn’t have a say in much of anything. He couldn’t change how they spent their money on expensive clothes and jewels instead of helping others, nor could he force them to free the hundreds of slaves working on their Virginian plantation, but he could get under their skin, just a little, give himself that small bit of freedom.

“It’s bad enough,” she continued spitefully, spurred on by the opportunity to complain about Mon-El’s father, “that he invited those commoners from the north in some attempt to ‘improve our reputation’ —an obvious lie, as if it needs improving! And just look at them! They stick out, everyone can see. Honestly, who would believe a bunch of dirty abolitionists are going to help our reputation—”

“Wait, Father invited northerners?” Mon-El interrupted his mother’s rant, curiosity piqued. “Who?”

Rhea huffed, annoyed he hadn’t let her finish her tirade, but pointed over the balcony with her fan. “Over there. That mousy scientist Zor-El and his wife, Alura. He teaches at some university or another…oh, it appears they’ve brought their daughter, too.” She barked out a laugh. “As if she would have a chance with you. Clearly the wishful thinking of her parents…”

Mon-El squinted at the dance floor below. All he could see of the daughter was a blue dress and a head of blond hair hovering near the refreshments, and he recalled seeing her in the same place earlier. Somehow, he doubted meeting him had been her reason for staying at the ball. If so, the hors d'oeuvres weren’t the best place to look.

An idea struck him. “As a matter of fact, Mother, there is a lady who’s caught my eye tonight.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Really? Who?”

He began to descend the stairs, talking over his shoulder. “Anyone you despise must be excellent company.”

The last thing he heard from his mother was a scoff and an “Honestly, Mon-El!”, and then he had rejoined the party. Zor-El’s daughter had her back turned to him, but it appeared she still hadn’t left the appetizers.

“Enjoying the food, miss?”

The girl let out a startled squeak and spun around. Her cheeks were stuffed full of cheesecake, like a chipmunk. She was startlingly beautiful. He hadn’t really expected that—not that only rich women could be attractive, of course, but he’d mostly picked her as a way to bother his mother. This was purely his good luck. Mon-El flashed her his most charming smile.

She swallowed carefully, her face reddening. “Er—yes, it’s very good, um…?”

“Mon-El Gand.” So much for Mother’s theory. He extended a hand, palm facing upwards, watching as her eyes widened at his name and she hurriedly wiped her fingers free of crumbs.

“Kara—Kara Zor-El.” She lowered her small hand into his almost tentatively, as if unsure what he was going to do with it.

Mon-El hid a smile and bowed, pressing his lips to the second knuckle. He heard her inhale sharply, not quite a gasp. “Pleased to meet you,” he murmured as he let her go.

“And you.” Kara Zor-El fidgeted, her gaze darting around nervously. He was close enough now to see that her dress, however coarse the material, matched the color of her eyes perfectly. A vibrant blue like a summer sky…hypnotizing.

Oblivious to his thoughts, she cleared her throat and turned back to the table laden with food, mixing herself a drink out of the ingredients available.

Mon-El frowned. “You know, you needn’t do that yourself. One of the servants will make it for you if you ask.”

Kara’s posture stiffened, and she dropped the glass down onto the table with a thud. “I am perfectly capable of making a drink without the help of slave labor,” she snapped, the shy girl from moments earlier nowhere to be found.

Mon-El could only gape at her for a second, taken aback by her bluntness. She seemed almost surprised too, freezing as she slowly looked back at him, bracing herself for his reaction. It was better to be diplomatic, wasn’t it? And hopefully his mother wasn’t watching. “Fair enough,” he managed, and she looked visibly relieved. He wondered how anyone could get through life like that, showing their emotions so openly on their face.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself much,” Kara noted softly. Carefully.

He shrugged, hoping he didn’t look as tired as he felt. “Well, it is our sixth ball in two months. My parents are quite determined to marry me off before I return to the front.”

Unexpectedly, her eyes lit up. “You’re fighting in the revolution?”

“Yes?”

She pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a battle of curiosity. “What is it like there?” she blurted out finally.

“…Violent,” Mon-El answered honestly. “Dirty. Terrifying.”

Kara looked him up and down once more, brow furrowing slightly. “Then why did you enlist?” She rushed to elaborate. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t quite expect that…someone like you would want to fight in the war.”

Good question, he thought. He considered speaking vaguely of wanting to serve his country, but something told him she would see past it in an instant. In the end, he settled on the truth. “I don’t know, I…wanted to feel like I was doing something, I suppose. Helping someone.”

“I can understand that,” she said softly. They were both silent for a moment, and Mon-El could feel his heart pounding, wondering how he’d ended up sharing things with her that he’d hardly spoken to anyone, let alone a stranger. She’d drawn the truth out of him without even trying. An ability to be wary of.

In the corner of the room, the band started up again, and he took the opportunity to break the silence. “Might I have this dance, Kara?” he asked, testing out her name on his tongue. It was far from proper to address her as such, but he was feeling daring tonight.

She flushed slightly instead of protesting, as he’d hoped, and took his offered hand. “You may. Although I have to warn you,” she continued as they reached the dance floor, “I’m quite clumsy. If I were you, I’d prepare to have your feet stepped upon.”

He laughed. “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”

It was not, in fact, an exaggeration.

“I’m sorry!” Kara wailed after seeing him wince for the umpteenth time. “I have terrible coordination, I did try to tell you…”

“No, I don’t think that’s the problem.” He pulled her close to himself, barely saving them from colliding with a nearby couple.

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “No? Then what?”

“You’re too tense,” Mon-El explained. “I can practically feel you overthinking every aspect of this dance.”

Kara huffed, tightening her grip on his hand almost painfully as she tried to match her footwork to his. “Well, excuse me if I don’t know all of your fancy southern waltzes—” Her head collided with his chin.

“Ow.”

“Sorry!”

“Stop looking at your feet,” he tilted her chin up, “look into my eyes. The rhythm is always there.”

“If you say so,” she mumbled, but held his gaze, looking determined. They didn’t break eye contact as the musical phrase started again, and little by little Mon-El felt her relax, settling into the dance. She laughed breathlessly when he twirled her through the air and he couldn’t help but laugh along, something long-dormant inside him fluttering to life.

Before he knew it, the song had ended and he bowed while she swept into a surprisingly graceful curtsey. “So, did you enjoy yourself?” he prompted, teasing, as they straightened up again.

“I suppose your southern balls are alright, after all,” Kara returned, equally playful.

“Happy to hear it.” They laughed together once more and Mon-El hooked his arm into hers, emboldened by this newfound closeness. “Shall we?”

She arched a brow, but followed him nonetheless. “And where exactly are you taking me?”

“A tour of the gardens.” He grinned at her as he pushed open the doors. “You seem as though you could use some air.”

“It’s freezing.” Kara shivered, letting go of him to rub warmth into her arms.

“Shouldn’t you be used to this, up in the north?”

She glared at him. “Unlike you, I don’t have the added insulation of breeches and a coat.”

Mon-El only grinned wider. “You’d better stay close, then.”

“Indeed,” she hummed. The flush in her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes betrayed her cool façade as she linked arms with him once more, pressed tightly to his side while they leisurely made their way down the path. He took a chance by lacing his fingers with hers, making a show of warming them with his breath and she giggled.

“You can still hear the music from here. I like this one.”

“Me, too.” It was another waltz, a slow and rather romantic one, muffled by the distance but still audible. On impulse, Mon-El turned to face her, letting go of her hand in favor of wrapping his arms around her waist as he moved in closer. “One last dance?”

“Alright,” Kara whispered. Her hands slid up to his shoulders before clasping behind his neck, her face so close to his that their noses brushed. She sighed contentedly and laid her head on his shoulder as they swayed in place, hardly coordinated enough to be considered dancing, but enjoying themselves nonetheless.

“I hate to ruin the mood,” Mon-El murmured, “but I have to ask; if your family isn’t exactly fond of mine, or of the south as a whole, than why come at all?”

Kara laughed softly as they wandered to a nearby bench. “Thought you’d ask that eventually.”

“Can you blame me for being curious?”

“No, not at all.” She let out a long breath, her gaze off somewhere in the distance as she considered her response. “My twin brother died last year, right before our nineteenth birthday,” she said finally. “He was in a duel, challenged some imbecile who besmirched our father’s name.”

Mon-El inhaled sharply. “Great Rao. I-I am so sorry.” It was hard to imagine the pain of losing a friend as close as a sibling, let alone a twin. Although he couldn’t help wondering what that had to do with a ball.

Kara smiled softly, guessing his next question. “He was the only boy in the family. I have two younger sisters, but they’re not yet of age. With my father struggling to find a steady job, the responsibility to marry well falls on me. I know you understand that, to some extent,” she added. “I’m assuming you’re the eldest too?”

“I don’t have any siblings, actually.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Really? None at all?”

He shrugged helplessly. “My mother had a difficult time with my birth. She almost died. The doctors told her not to have any more children.”

“Oh.”

Mon-El took her hand, liking how it was small in his but not delicate. “What was your brother like?”

She chewed her lip. “Seg was…kind. Thoughtful. The more levelheaded of the two of us.”

He chuckled along with her.

“He was very ambitious,” she added pensively. “He dreamt of becoming a great scientist, better and bolder than Father, successful enough that our sisters would want for nothing.” She looked down at her lap. “He would have been wonderful at it.”

There was an air of wistfulness in her voice, a hint of almost envy. Mon-El had spent his entire childhood wishing for an older brother, for someone to play with and laugh with and who would protect him from his mother’s rage. But something told him it wasn’t only her lost twin that she was longing for. “Kara,” he said, “if you didn’t have to marry, or take care of children, what would you want to do?”

“If I didn’t marry?” she repeated, baffled by the concept. “I…I don’t know.”

Mon-El paused to think, attempting to sort out what exactly he wanted from her. “What about if you were a man?”

“If I was a man?”

“Humor me.”

Kara settled back against the bench, considering her response. “A writer,” she said at last, so quietly he almost couldn’t hear.

“A writer?”

“Yes.” She was smiling now. “For a newspaper, or a journal.”

There it is. It made sense now that Mon-El thought about it. She wasn’t the most eloquent speaker he’d ever heard, but she had a gift for seeing into people, drawing out the loneliest parts of them and, impossibly, emphasizing. He could see how an article of hers could change lives. “So you like to write?”

Kara nodded eagerly. “About everything. Do you?”

He thought of the piles of parchment hidden beneath his mattress. “Not particularly.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Perhaps I have written a few…rudimentary essays, b-but nothing I would ever show anyone!”

All that got him was a incredulous frown. “Why not?”

“Well, I don’t think my parents would appreciate the ideas present in said writings.”

“Which would be?” she pressed.

He licked his lips, heart thudding in his chest. “The abolition of slavery. Among other things.”

A smile spread across Kara’s face, far too gleeful for his liking. “So you don’t agree with your parents’ views.”

He breathed out, slowly. “No, I don’t.”

“So why don’t you…tell them, do something about it? So many people are held in bondage on their plantations—”

Mon-El laughed; a dry, humorless thing. “And what exactly would I do? You don’t understand. I’ve tried, they won’t listen to me. I have no power there. The best thing I can hope is to escape them someday, forge my own path far, far away.”

“I’m sorry.”

The unexpected apology knocked him off guard. “What? Why?”

She looked almost confused that he would ask, as though it were obvious. “That you must live with a mother and father who have no respect for your opinion. My parents aren’t perfect, but I’ve always felt known.”

Known. It was as if she’d reached into his head and pulled out thoughts and feelings as easily as plucking flowers. He began to laugh. “You would make one hell of a journalist.”

Kara grinned, self-satisfied. “Why, thank you.”

“So what do you hope, for this new country of ours?”

“Oh,” she sighed, leaning into him. “So many things.”

As they spoke back and forth, Mon-El found himself admitting more and more, letting her into the parts of his mind that no one else had access to. It was hard to describe, but he had never felt so…understood. They both felt that pull, to make things better, to create change instead of just being content with the way things were. And at the same time, she made him feel like a better version of himself. Like the self that he wanted to be, someone who acted instead of standing by and wishing for a miracle to get him out of his miserable life.

There was a part of him that battled with this more intellectual sense of connection, a part of him that couldn’t help noticing not only the words that she spoke but the shape and texture of the lips that produced them, the graceful slope of her neck and the golden curls that framed her face.

He couldn’t decide what he wanted more: to bring her upstairs to his family’s library and show her the towering mahogany shelves stuffed full of books, see if she gravitated towards the same ones as he did—or, to bring her to his library and back her up against those bookshelves, kiss a path along her throat, tangle his hands in her carefully arranged hair and see if they fit together that way.

But he didn’t do either. Because a thought occurred to him, or rather, three fundamental truths in a neatly numbered list, and it was because of this that he cleared his throat and broke away from her gaze. He glanced down at his pocket watch, careful to look as though he was trying to seem surprised at the hour. “I’m terribly sorry, but I'd best be going now. It’s…getting late, and my mother will be wondering where I’ve gone.”

She wouldn’t be; in fact he had no doubt that she’d entirely forgotten about him during her conversations with Virginia’s wealthiest—unless of course the time came to brag about her attractive, war veteran son in an attempt to find him a bride she approved of.

Kara knew this, because he’d told her all about his mother’s carelessness concerning him and her face fell just as he had predicted. “Oh. All right, then. Will—shall I expect a letter from you?”

She still had hope; he could see it in her face. As much as it pained him to crush it he knew it was necessary. “Unfortunately I will be quite busy, preparing to leave for the war…I may not have time to write letters.”

Kara nodded slowly, the confusion in her face replaced by resignation as she finally recognized his clearly untruthful reply for what it was; a rejection. “I see. Well, it was…lovely meeting you.” Her voice wobbled slightly.

Mon-El dipped his head in response, pointedly keeping silent, and then rose from the bench and strode back towards the building. His stomach clenched painfully. He could feel her gaze on him, no doubt wondering how his feelings had changed so abruptly, but still he did not allow himself to look back.

(Number one: the obvious. He could never marry her. Her family was decidedly middle-class whereas his was lousy with wealth, staunch abolitionists where his parents would fight tooth and nail to keep their hundreds of servants, scholarly while he knew only of plantations and work that others did for him. They were too different. He would never be allowed to marry her. But who was he kidding—it didn’t make him want her any less.)

The ballroom was blindingly bright when he re-entered, filled with chatter and music. The warmth of the room should have been comforting, but instead it just felt stifling, the air thick and humid. Mon-El kept close to the wall this time, half-heartedly greeting people without processing a word they said. He declined a dance, two, ducked into a hallway when he saw Kara emerge from the opposite entrance. She was approached by an older couple, presumably her mother and father, and the three of them began to walk towards the exit. Thank Rao. The coast was clear. He moved to rejoin the party—

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Mother,” he sputtered, stumbling back to avoid a collision. How the hell did she move so silently? “Er, I was just—”

“Just what? Lurking in a hallway while there are guests to greet and an appearance to maintain?” Rhea crossed her arms, eyes
narrowed as she surveyed him. “I assumed you were off with that horrid Zor-El girl.”

(Number two: not only were the rich selfish and often corrupt, they were, above all, enormous gossips. The House of Gand’s only son and heir, wed to a struggling professor’s daughter? Even if they did manage to marry, by elopement or somehow convincing his parents to allow it, that wouldn’t guarantee a good life. Kara would be ridiculed by the people of his social circle, called a manipulative gold digger and claimed to be using him to get ahead. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into his toxic excuse for a family, either, avoiding his mother’s glares and thinly veiled insults at every dinner. But was it really worth giving up the chance to be with someone he knew he would grow to love, someone he felt truly understood and liked by?)

“I was,” Mon-El said slowly.

“And?” His mother’s brow arched, unsatisfied with his response.

“And…you were right,” he finished abruptly. “She was…dreadfully boring. I’ve only just escaped.”

“Hmph.” A smug smile curved the corner of Rhea’s mouth. “You would do better to listen to your mother, next time.”

“Indeed.” He didn’t fight her as she slipped her arm into his, swiftly pulling him from his hiding spot.

“Well, come along. Your father and I have people we would like you to meet. Including a few proper young ladies…”

(Number three: Mon-El was not a man who fell in love often, but when he did it was an all-encompassing, fiery beast. His mind was already running wild, collecting every piece of information he knew about her and counting the treasures, holding them tight and close like a dragon protecting his hoard. He was leaving in three weeks, for Rao’s sake. And who knew what would happen during the next months of war. Perhaps he would simply perish on the battlefield, be buried in an unmarked grave, his earlier torment now insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But never mind that, the point was that he was becoming attached, his heart and mind caught on this beautiful stranger who felt like a lifelong friend. And getting attached would only lead to suffering, as he had learned over and over in his childhood. Because as much as he wanted her, longed for her body and her mind and her words and her heart—

He couldn’t have her.)

Chapter Text

December 22nd, 1780

“Who are these extra place settings for?” Mon-El frowned, recounting the dishes laid out on the table. It was the night before he returned to the front, and his mother had insisted on one last family dinner—always an awkward affair.

“We have guests tonight, son.” His father adjusted his neckcloth for him, something akin to nervousness showing in his face. “I trust you’ll make a good impression.”

“I—alright.” He looked at his mother for a clue, but Rhea seemed equally baffled by his father’s behavior, shooting him a suspicious look moments before a knock sounded at the door.

Lar nearly jumped out of his seat. “I’ll get it!” He swung open the door to reveal a dark-haired woman roughly Mon-El’s age and an older man with graying mutton chops and a gold-tipped cane. “Alfred, so good to see you!” The two men embraced like the old friends they apparently were and the woman stepped hesitantly inside, her eyes searching around until they landed on Mon-El. She smiled slightly as she looked him up and down, startling a little when Lar went to embrace her next.

“Ms. Ardeen, you look lovely as always.”

“Thank you, Lar, it’s wonderful to see you again.” She spoke with a soft London accent, breathing through her r’s and slanting her a’s.

“Darling?” Rhea cut in, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Would you care to introduce us to your friends?”

“Yes, of course, where are my manners,” he stammered. “Rhea, Mon-El, this is Alfred Williams, a good friend of mine. And his daughter, Imra Ardeen.”

“Imra Ardeen!” Rhea exclaimed, her demeanor changing from cold and suspicious to falsely sweet in the blink of an eye. “Yes, I remember, we met at that function last fall—I was so sorry to hear of your husband’s passing. What a tragedy!”

“Thank you.” The woman—Imra—smiled weakly. “It…came on very suddenly.”

“Rhea, let’s not bring up such woeful matters!” Lar protested, voice just a bit too loud and hurried to be polite. “Imra, this our son, Mon-El. He’s one of many brave soldiers fighting for our freedom from the British.”

Mon-El, who had been silently watching this all unfold and wondering what in Rao’s name was going on, jumped when he heard his name.

Imra didn’t seem offended by his inattentiveness and walked towards him, extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said softly. She looked…hopeful, almost.

“You as well,” he answered automatically, and brushed his lips over the back of her hand. It felt delicate in his, her skin soft and free of calluses. A sign of her class—or rather, their class.

An awkward pause followed his response, each of them seemingly waiting for the other to speak. At last, Lar cleared his throat, gesturing for the servants to bring in the remainder of the dishes. “Well, you must be hungry. Let us eat!”

“This corn is excellent,” Albert, or Alfred or whatever his name was announced several minutes into dinner. “From your plantation, I assume?”

“Yes, indeed!” Lar looked delighted to change the subject towards farming, as usual. “I would love to hear about your own business. What kind of fertilizer do you use?”

“We’ve been thinking of changing vendors, actually, do you have any suggestions?”

“But of course! On our cornfields we have a special technique I heard about from—”

The two went back and forth, enthusiastically comparing crop numbers and animal breeds and other aspects of farming Mon-El had put great effort into not understanding. They were so engrossed in their conversation that Lar didn’t even notice when Rhea loudly excused herself to the powder room, sending her storming off in a huff.

Across the table Imra was absently swirling her drink without taking a sip, her eyes glazed over with boredom. Mon-El tapped the table to get her attention and flicked his gaze towards their fathers, tracing a heart in the air with his index fingers.

She giggled, a hand coming up to cover her mouth.

He chuckled back. Their gazes caught, warmed by the simplicity of a shared joke, and the knot in his stomach loosened just a little.

Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last, as Rhea chose that moment to stride back into the room.

“Getting acquainted, are we?” She took hold of the conversation then, asking questions pointedly and steering them away from any topics she deemed too controversial. Which was everything interesting, Mon-El grumbled internally. He knew what she was doing.

Imra appeared a little baffled by his mother’s intensity but she took it all in stride, fielding off the most invasive questions and asking some of her own. Mon-El had hoped to stay a silent observer in this bizarre dinner but she made it difficult, enquiring into his opinion often until he had no choice but to join the conversation.

She was a pleasant enough person, he thought. Respectful and polite. Perhaps a little too polite, to the point of being quite reserved. Even after several hours of talking while they polished off dessert, he still felt that he didn’t know much about her. To be fair, he could’ve made a bit more of an effort, but his mind was elsewhere. (A garden, a magical laugh, a head of blond hair on his shoulder—)

“Mr. Gand?”

He realized with a start that Imra had been talking to him. “Pardon?”

She pressed her lips together, flushing slightly. “I simply remarked, that it was lovely meeting you.” (Impossible not to remember the last woman who said that to him.) “Thank you for having us.”

He smiled, mostly genuine. “Of course.” They bid farewell, Lar and Alfred embracing jovially once more, and then father and daughter had vanished into the night. As soon as the door closed, Mon-El rounded on his parents. “Whatever happened to letting me choose my own bride? And I’m still leaving tomorrow, I thought we agreed it would be better to wait—”

“We did, and it is still your choice,” his father interrupted hastily. “But, well…” He looked over his shoulder at Rhea. They made eye contact for a moment, seemingly having some sort of telepathic conversation in which words were not necessary. At last she shrugged and turned to retire upstairs. Lar faced Mon-El more fully, placing his hands on his shoulders. “Son,” he began, “I know how you feel about marriage.”

“Do you?” Mon-El muttered.

“Yes,” his father cut him off pointedly. “You think it can only lead to discontent, that you will be a burden to your wife. That she would be better off without you.”

His shoulders sagged and he stayed silent, weighed down by the truth in his father’s words.

“But,” Lar continued, “Ms. Ardeen, as I’m sure you heard, is a widow. She has two young children, and has been forced to move back in with her father so that she may care for them and herself.”

Mon-El began to understand what his father was getting at. Imra needed to remarry, and quickly, to regain her social status and keep her family afloat. And he was an attractive option, given his family’s wealth. “So you’re saying I should marry her, what, out of pity?”

“I’m saying, that you would be anything but a burden to her. And I thought you would get along, as well. She holds similar ideals as you do, even if neither of you have had the time or place to admit it.”

Mon-El tensed immediately, unsure of which ideals, exactly, Lar was referring to. Surely it couldn’t be the ones he was so careful to hide.

“And she is a lovely girl, besides,” Lar added carelessly, walking along the length of the table. “Kind. Quick-witted. Beautiful.”

Mon-El knew she was beautiful. It was undeniable that anyone who looked at her would find her nothing less than entrancing, with her dark chocolate hair and eyes like green stone. His friends would never pass up on the chance to marry someone like her, and logically, he shouldn’t either. But a part of him still hesitated, because, well. She wasn’t Kara. There was no spark, no breathless, flight-like exhilaration, no heat buzzing just under his skin. But he had already given up on that.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “I shall send her a letter, once I arrive at the front. Propose that we get to know one another a bit.”

His father clapped him on the shoulder, his smile genuine for once. “Good.”

#

To Ms. Imra Ardeen,

I know some time will have passed by the time this letter reaches your hands, but I wish you and your father a Happy Christmas. I thought you might like to know that you have been on my mind these past few days. I am afraid I did not make the greatest of first impressions upon our meeting, and I apologize if it seemed as though my mind was elsewhere or I did not find your company entertaining. On the contrary, I find you a compelling and most delightful woman and it would please me very much if we could one day consider ourselves to be friends of some sort. As to avoid making a waste of parchment with such a sparing letter, I think I shall write for you an account of my first couple of weeks back at the front, and if you should desire to take me up on my offer of friendship then your next letter may contain a similar description of the recent happenings in your life. This way, we shall learn something of each other.

A good friend of mine, Winslow Schott, has just recently become a father, and he has spent every free second regaling us all with tales of his daughter’s first smile and the way she laughed when he made a face and how he was sure she’d said “Papa” during a stream of typical baby gurgling. By now, even the most fatherly and patient-hearted of us have grown bored, and take great care to steer the conversation away from such topics. Particularly a mutual friend who is affectionately called “Brainy” within our regimen. His real name is Dox and he is a rather queer fellow, desiring neither children nor a wife, only to further his legal career after the war. I think we have all wondered what drove him to join our forces, but we may never know. He and Winslow argue often, some odd sort of rivalry that extends back in time before the war. Winn can be immature at times—we all can, really—but he is no less valued among us, for his optimism and humor persist even throughout the bloodiest days on the battlefield and I am eternally grateful.

If I am to be quite honest with you, my dear friend-to-be, I find myself growing weary of this never-ending war. I wish for nothing more than the freedom of our people and the chance to rule ourselves justly at long last, but I pray it will not come at the cost of too many lives. There are many great minds scattered throughout these fields, and our fledgeling country will need them for what lies ahead, after we have defeated the British and won our independence—I refuse to believe this conflict will end any other way.

Well, this letter has taken an unexpectedly solemn turn. I do hope I haven’t bored you, Ms. Ardeen, for if we are to be more than acquaintances you shall have to get used to such frank conversation. I’m afraid I am far from the sort of man who will sugarcoat a topic to make it more palatable. If that is not a problem, I think we shall get along quite well.

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

M. Gand

Sent December 25th, 1780
Received December 30th, 1780

—

Dear Mr. Gand,

A letter from you was indeed not something I expected after my father and I left your lovely home in December. It was not that the company was so terrible, or that you seemed so disinterested, but I was rather under the impression that our visit came as an unpleasant surprise to you and your mother, and if I am to gain a new friend or perhaps more than that, I should hope that my company is not forced upon them. Even if I was unaware of this until the very date, I do apologize. I would very much like to continue this correspondence, as well.

I’m afraid the recent happenings in my life, as you put it, could not hope to be as exciting or heroic as your own, but I shall do my best. I spent the last few weeks up in Albany visiting my older sister Preya. We are but a year apart, although she takes great joy in referring to me as her “little” sister. She has eight children, the oldest only seventeen and not yet out on his own. I do so adore being their “Auntie Imra”, but stars above, I could not imagine carrying, birthing and constantly looking after so many children! I have two of my own, perhaps your father mentioned them, one-year-old Theodore and three-year-old Elizabeth. I love them more than life itself; they fill up my heart to bursting, but I have to confess that when I imagine a future with whomever will take my late husband’s place—and perhaps that man will be you—there are still only two children in that picture. I sincerely hope this will not create a rift between us. Should I become your wife then of course your wants and wishes will become my own, and if you truly wish for more children then I shall bear them. But you must know that when it comes to offspring, my family already feels quite complete.

As to your last point, I assure you that us ladies, and particularly myself, are perfectly capable of holding a conversation about more than tea parties and embroidery, if you’ll pardon my tone. My brothers are fighting in the war alongside yourself and I would be both a curious so-called rebel and a poor sister if I refused to speak of it. I, too, am weary of this war and the good men it has taken from us, and I desperately wish there was more I could do. I’m afraid I am not quite cut out for a field nurse, but I admire those who have journeyed to the fields to provide aid.

Perhaps you will come across my brothers during some battle or another. They are called Robert and James and have all the grace of a bull in a shop of the finest china. If you manage to find them during a moment of peace, kindly remind them of their sister and the many letters of hers they have yet to return. I would despair if my last words to them were but a reprimand for being lazy at the pen. Knowing their clumsiness, this unfortunate vision may indeed come true. Please forgive my attempt at jesting—I’m afraid this war has done strange things to my sense of humor.

Do try to keep yourself alive, my dear Mr. Gand. I just may become fond of you.

Your readily-proclaimed new friend,

I. Ardeen

Sent December 31st, 1780
Received January 5th, 1781

Chapter Text

As the months passed, their letters continued. Mon-El told her of his views on slavery in the very next letter, thinking it better to confirm she did not share his parents’ opinions before things got too far between them. Her reply was simultaneously encouraging and disappointing.

Mon-El,

I fear this may not be the response you are looking for, but before you become too put-off, allow me to affirm that I do agree that the practice of slavery is unjust and immoral. However, I cannot, in good conscience, call myself an abolitionist whilst I am unable to see an America in which the practice is abandoned. We, the people, and especially those of us in the south are conditioned to a certain lifestyle, a certain way of viewing the world and the people in it. Our very wealth and prosperity comes directly from slavery! We may wish for change, but if I am to be perfectly honest I do not think it possible.

At least she didn’t condone slavery, or see it as “natural” or “for their own good” (phrases Mon-El’s parents often tossed around). He supposed it could have been worse…but it was still quite frustrating. Their next few letters consisted of a stilted, stiflingly polite debate bordering on an argument, until finally Mon-El ended it with:

My dear Imra,

If we keep up with this quarrel I fear it will never end. I find it doubtful that either of us will ever convince the other to assume a new stance on the topic, and so I think it best that we put it to bed. Especially when there are a great deal of other things we could be discussing. I am willing to let this conflict go, if you would extend me that same courtesy.

Imra replied in a similar manner, and that was that. The topic of slavery was more or less ignored for the remainder of their correspondence, and Mon-El was glad for it. He was disappointed she didn’t see things the way he did, of course, but the fact remained that it was nice to have someone to confide in other than his friends in the army, immature as they could often be. And despite her views on certain matters, Imra was an engaging conversational partner. They spoke of the war, their childhoods, their families.

I admit that I have indeed held onto the hope of being a father one day, but you needn’t worry. It matters not to me whether my children and I are bonded by blood or simply by love. And I can promise you that I have no desire to be a husband who wishes for his wife to follow his every command. All that matters is that you are happy. I look forward to meeting Elizabeth and Theodore upon my return, if you would allow it.

His reply was not entirely truthful. It did matter, just a bit, but he certainly wasn’t going to force her into anything, nor cause her to feel guilty for her preference. And being a stepfather couldn’t be that different, Mon-El reasoned. Imra’s children were young, and sounded delightful by her descriptions. He had always loved children—had spent his early teenage years playing with his young cousins while his mother lurked in the corner, hiding her jealousy behind a scowl.

One day, the yelling from the room where the adults had been talking after supper reached an unprecedented volume, and the next thing Mon-El knew he was being dragged out of the house with a hissed promise from his mother that they were never visiting his uncle again. He knew she hated how he pitied her and Lar for their infertility, and had a sneaking suspicion that the contempt she seemed to hold for her only son was related, bizarrely. His parents had always wanted many children to carry on their legacy, and the one they had was a disappointment.

I did receive that impression when my father and I dined with your family, wrote Imra. Grief does strange things to a person, and I am sorry you have been paying the price. No one deserves to feel ignored and unwanted in their own home.

It was strikingly similar to what Kara had said months ago, and the thought made him smile. Perhaps it was a sign, that he could find a connection with someone he was actually allowed to be with. Perhaps he could grow to love her.

This prediction turned out to be incorrect, although perhaps not in the way one would think. Imra was a cherished friend and penpal by the time the war was nearly at its end, but the fact remained that something was missing. Try as he might, when Mon-El thought of her face at night he couldn’t seem to muster up any kind of passion or the beginnings of attraction, save the same placid affection and kinship he felt with all of his closest friends. The spark simply wasn’t there. He respected her, he liked her. But he had begun to doubt he would ever love her in the way a husband was expected to love his wife.

And it wasn’t for lack of trying—he sent flowery letters filled with compliments, telling her that she consumed his thoughts, brightened the darkest days on the front. He could tell Imra didn’t believe him any more than he believed himself, but she played along. It was one of his mother’s balls all over again, going through the motions, saying all the right things and performing the right dances while something inside of him wilted. It felt more like they were rehearsing a play and acting out the roles than engaging in a blossoming romance. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to step off the stage.

Even when memories of another woman haunted him night and day.

#

If he’d assumed that Kara would leave his thoughts once he returned to the war, he was wrong.

It turned out there wasn’t much merit in “out of sight, out of mind.” She was nowhere to be found and yet she was everywhere, on the battlefield, in his tent at night, on the paths they marched for hours without a rest. Mon-El couldn’t get her out of his head. He almost wished there was some sort of magic cure, one that could make him forget he’d ever met her in the first place.

No, he didn’t mean that. But if he had to pick a reason why any romantic feelings for Imra had yet to surface, the fact that he was stuck on another woman was a strong candidate. The idea of being with anyone else felt undeniably wrong, no matter how he tried to picture it.

The war was a welcome distraction, and he took down more British soldiers than ever, reloading his musket with a speed few could manage. But his friends could see the change in him, the way he lay awake at night, unable to sleep even after a particularly exhausting battle, or nearly let his clothes be swept away by the river while he gazed off somewhere in the distance, lost in thought. They knew he was courting a woman from back home, and so most assumed that she was the cause of his distraction, oblivious to the truth.

Every time he had an idea he wanted Kara’s opinion. If he thought of a joke, he wanted to tell it to her. When he and his men gathered around a campfire at night and sang folk songs wildly out of tune, laughing all the while, he wanted her there, too. If this was love, it was even worse an illness than he remembered.

“Whoa, there. Beware of lurking officers! I nearly thought you were a bear.”

Mon-El laughed, turning back to the forest. “My apologies. And I’m not lurking, I’m just…thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking an awful lot lately.” Winn joined him at the lake’s edge, facing him as he waggled his eyebrows. “Is this about that lady of yours?”

“She’s not…my lady,” he mumbled under his breath. Something in his face must have tipped Winn off that the courtship wasn’t a passionate one, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Do tell.”

Mon-El sighed. “My father introduced us. She’s beautiful and kind, but…something doesn’t feel right. I don’t think I could ever grow to love her.”

Winn frowned. “Why not?”

Instead of answering, Mon-El simply looked at him, letting his gaze linger on the stubble lining Winn’s jaw, the smile lines around his eyes.

They had been lovers, once. For the first few years of the war when they were both young men, arrogant and scared senseless all at once. They had been flirting for weeks; the winters were harsh and finding someone to warm your bed was one of few ways to stay sane and avoid killing each other.

“You know, if you w-wanted to get closer to me, you only h-had to ask. No need to feign frostbite.”

Winn scowled, but there was no fire behind it. “Shut up, s-southern boy, you’re shivering, too.” He didn’t move away, the two of them pressed so close that his breath fanned across Mon-El’s face as they shared a blanket and a bedroll.

“You have me there. It’s f-fucking freezing,” Mon-El hissed, rubbing his hands together under the blanket in an attempt to warm them.

“You’re the one who d-drank all the whiskey. Any more brilliant ideas?”

“On how to stay warm?” Seeing an opportunity, he propped himself up on an elbow, a finger trailing lazily down Winn’s throat to fiddle with a button on his shirt. “I might have a few.”

Instead of laughing and changing the subject like he usually did, Winn narrowed his eyes, surveying him in return. “Mon-El Gand,” he replied.

“That’s me,” Mon-El whispered.

Without warning Winn’s fingers curled into the collar of his shirt and he yanked him forward, kissing him hard. The inside of his mouth was warm, and he tasted of whiskey.

Mon-El laughed into the kiss. “It seems you have some ideas of your own,” he murmured when they parted.

“Mon-El?” Winn glared at him, breathing hard.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He’d shared Winn’s bed for one year, two, though it hardly could have been called a relationship. They were both too young and terrified to really know how to have one, and the arrangement finally ended a few weeks before Winn went home to visit his family for the first time. They agreed that, now reaching their twenties, they would both have to find wives soon, and they couldn’t very well keep meeting in secret. It was the right decision, but a painful one. During that same visit Winn met his future wife Ayla, and the rest was history.

Mon-El was happy for him, despite the sting of lost opportunity. He’d served as best man at the wedding, knowing that this was one friendship he could never lose, even if there would always be the whisper of something more between them. If there was anyone he could trust enough to explain his predicament to, it was Winn.

“Because…I love another,” he confessed.

“You do? Who is it?” Winn looked far too excited, as if Mon-El’s life were an intriguing new drama.

He sighed, wistful despite himself. “We met at one of my parents’ balls. It was only a night, but…she’s stayed with me. I’ve never felt like this about anyone in my life.”

“This is amazing!” Winn exclaimed. “Then why isn’t it she you are courting?”

Mon-El spread his hands helplessly. “I could never marry her. She’s—her father is a professor of physics who can barely keep a job. Her family are northerners and loud abolitionists. My parents would never agree to it, and even if they did…she’d be ridiculed. There simply isn’t a future for us together.”

“You’ve thought a lot about this,” Winn noted.

He looked down. “I’ve had to.” They were both silent for a moment. “I suppose you’re going to tell me to follow my heart and marry for love, like you did?”

“No,” Winn said finally.

Mon-El looked over at him, surprised. “No?”

“Putting personal desires aside—you aren’t me. I may not have had the greatest father, but he didn’t give a shit who I married and neither does my mother. Of course, I’m not the heir to Virginia’s most successful plantation, so there’s that.” He drew in a deep breath. “And considering the more…misguided decisions you’ve made in an attempt to benefit the greater good, this one sounds a lot more reasonable. You said it yourself—you’re protecting the both of you.”

Mon-El sighed heavily, turning his gaze back to the rippling green lake. He had already known his decision was right, but hearing it from someone else made the consequences feel much more real. For once, he’d done the right thing, and all he was left with was an empty heart. “How will I ever forget her?” he whispered.

A gentle hand settled onto his shoulder, and he looked back into Winn’s warm brown eyes. “With time,” he said, squeezing lightly. “And I may not know much about this other woman, but I know you. You’ll find a way to love her, in some form or another.”

Mon-El nodded slowly. “I hope so.”

“And besides,” he continued, his hand falling away, “You’re a Colonel now! You’ve wanted this for so long—revel in it, and in fighting for our people’s freedom. Nothing else matters more than that.”

“That’s true,” Mon-El acknowledged. The thought was surprisingly comforting. They had a war to fight; all of the other craziness in his life would have to wait. “Thank you, Winn.”

“Hey, any time.” Winn turned to leave.

“Winn.”

He looked back.

“Thank you,” Mon-El repeated as he gripped the other man’s arm, hoping the look on his face was enough to convey all that he wished to tell him.

“Any time,” Winn said again, his eyes soft. “Now let’s go win this war.”

Chapter Text

January 23rd, 1777

“You, uh, you wanted to see me, sir?” Mon-El hovered awkwardly at the door, unsure if he was meant to just stroll in or wait for permission. He remembered to salute at the last minute.

The general beckoned him in with a jerk of his head. “Gand. Come in.”

Mon-El entered his office, fidgeting slightly. “Have I done something wrong, sir?” He was certain the great General J’onn J’onzz had never so much as looked in his direction before, so he couldn’t fathom why he’d been summoned for a one-on-one conversation except to be reprimanded—although even that seemed below the general.

When J’onzz had first arrived, they’d all looked upon him in awe, as if he were a gift from the gods. Exactly the leader they needed to defeat Britain. He certainly looked the part—towering over even the tallest of them, with a muscular physique and a stern, serious face that seemed as though it had been carved from stone.

“Quite the opposite, actually.” J’onzz leaned forward onto his desk. “I’m sure you are aware of how much is at stake in this war. We fight not for the present but for the future, for our children who deserve to live and grow under a fair and just government.” He paused. “What is it that you are fighting for, Gand?”

“For the very same, sir,” he whispered, then cleared his throat. “I…wish for a world where all have a say in how they are governed, and that will never happen under British rule.”

“Indeed.” General J’onzz regarded him, steepling his fingers, and Mon-El had the distinct feeling that he had just been tested.

“Sir, if I may ask…What is this about?”

“…The longer I remain your general, the further my hopes plummet,” the general said at last. “We are outnumbered, outgunned, out-planned. My troops flee left and right, frightened as little boys—the weight of these burdens rests heavily on my shoulders, and I need someone to lighten the load.” He trained his gaze on Mon-El. “Someone like you.”

“Someone like…me?” A spoiled southern boy who joined the army to feel something and probably has a death wish? That’s who the general needs? “I…I don’t understand.”

“Then allow me to be more direct.” J’onzz stood, drawing himself up to his full height as he looked Mon-El square in the eyes. “Be my aide-de-camp.”

Him? The general’s personal secretary? Stunned, the only words he could manage to get out were, “But I’m—I’m not a writer. Sir.”

“I’m not quite sure that matters.” J’onzz walked around his desk to stand next to it, clasping his hands together. “Your reputation precedes you, Gand. I’ve heard tales of your persistent arguments over politics with the other men. You may not realize it, but you have quite the gift of persuasion. Your points are concise, you have charisma and you know how to keep a level head. That is a rare trait among military men. And one that will come in handy as we are forced to beg for resources and aid from Congress.”

“I’m honored that you would consider me, sir.” Great Rao, how was he going to say no to the general? “But I—I’ve always felt that the battlefield is where I belong.”

J’onzz frowned slightly. “You wish to fight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dreams of dying like a hero?”

“Well, I—not exactly, sir. I just think that if I were off writing in a tent somewhere while my friends and brothers were out there risking their lives…” Mon-El took a deep breath. “I would feel like a coward, sir.”

“So it is guilt that drives your decision. Interesting.” General J’onzz appraised him with dark brown eyes, as if trying to see right through him, and Mon-El stood uncomfortably waiting for the general to continue.

“There is plenty of excitement to be found at my side,” he said at last. “And I can promise that your work would greatly help the war effort. Besides,” J’onzz continued, “call it wishful thinking, but I see something in you, Gand. You have the heart of a hero. Don’t waste that on a suicide mission.”

He didn’t know whether to say “thank you” or “I won’t” or “I sincerely doubt I will ever be anything resembling a hero but it’s amazing that you think so”, but luckily the look on his face seemed to say it all and the general’s expression morphed into something almost like a smile.

“So. Will you join me, Mon-El?”

(His first name!) He breathed in, slowly, and then out, slowly. “It would be my honor, sir.”

And that was that. Working as a secretary was not nearly as boring as Mon-El had originally thought—as J’onzz’s right hand man he was always at the center of action, as promised, and was privy to many of the general’s secrets and bold remarks that spilled out when he had had a few too many tankards of ale. Mostly, though, the work was frustrating. He wrote endless letters to Congress, begging for aid, rations, supplies and more troops and all he ever got back was yet another military command for wherever they wanted an attack next.

Well, your excellencies, Mon-El seethed internally, it’s awfully hard to plan and execute a proper war campaign and fight battle after grueling battle when one has no shoes, medical supplies or means of obtaining food short of eating our horses. Which, you may recall, we have great need of if we intend to actually win this fucking war by some means other than standing in lines to get shot at.

He never sent these rants, of course, but they lurked in the back of his mind like serpents as he watched his fellow soldiers starve and freeze and fall dead to the ground at the hands of redcoats. Some men resented him for being one of the general’s favored officers and he couldn’t help but agree with them, tired of being sheltered and spending all of his time in tents, writing, writing, writing. He wanted more. He wanted to fight. More than that—he wanted a command, wanted to shout orders to a battalion and contribute to campaign strategies and lead his men across the battlefield with their flag raised high and and and—

It was a sentiment that General J’onzz did not appear to share. “You’re not ready,” he said the first time Mon-El asked when he could expect to rejoin the battle as a Colonel. And the second time. And the third, and the fourth and the fifth and so on for four years of service by his general’s side, until one day the now-fragile alliance between them finally shattered to pieces.

He’d disobeyed J’onzz’s orders, had snuck from the general’s side to the front lines where their defense was failing, grabbed a bayonet and started shooting. They were still forced to retreat, but Mon-El had been of great help in ensuring the redcoats lost almost as many men as they had. However, as the battle was nearing its end, a British soldier out of Mon-El’s field of view shot him in the thigh, sending him tumbling to the ground.

It was the first time he’d caught a bullet while fighting in the war. It hurt so much he thought he would pass out, but he didn’t. And after a full hour of digging through the tissue in his leg to try and find the bullet, he still hadn’t. It was only much later, bullet finally removed and standing unsteadily in the general’s office with a walking stick that had been hastily shoved into his hand, that Mon-El came face-to-face with the man whose orders he’d ignored for the first time after the battle.

“You could have been killed.” (He had never seen J’onn J’onzz this angry.) “What the hell were you thinking?”

“That we were getting our asses kicked,” he bit back, watching the general pace back and forth. “What did you expect me to do?”

“Stay with me, like I ordered you to!” J’onzz bellowed without missing a beat.

“I’m sorry I disobeyed your orders,” Mon-El said finally. “But sir, this is war, you saw how many men we were losing! I did what I could. If you just gave me a command—”

“You could die, and we need you alive!

“I am more than willing to die—”

“Your family needs you alive, son, I need you alive—"

“No one needs me alive!” he finally shouted, voice cracking, and regretted it immediately. The general’s entire posture shifted, and he looked at his aide-de-camp as though he was seeing him for the very first time.

“…Go home, Mon-El. Go home and find something worth goddamn living for.”

“Sir—”

“Go. Home.”

He went home.

And when he returned to the general’s office a month later, gaze hardened and head held high, J’onzz took one look at him and slid a single sheet of paper across his desk—a document decreeing the details of his field command and the group of men he would be leading.

He nodded. “You’re ready.”

#

October 14, 1781
The Battle of Yorktown

Nothing could ever trump this feeling, Mon-El was certain. A weapon heavy in his hand, his men gathered around him, the crisp morning air tasting of impending victory. They reviewed the general’s orders, map flat against the rickety table they were all huddled around, and then all heads turned to him.

“We have to surprise them,” Mon-El said slowly, hoping no one could hear how fast his heart was beating. “Go at night, catch the enemy unaware. I have an idea…” They all watched him with breathless anticipation. “Remove the bullets from your guns.”

They crept under the cover of dark, dozens of men moving as one, weapons empty and disconcertingly light in their hands. The silent, tense moments before the first strike stretched out in front of him like an eternity, and Mon-El found himself wondering if he had miscalculated and this siege had been a terrible mistake; if he would die right here with everyone else before his one attempt at being a decent person was even completed. If that was the case, there were worse ways to go down. But no, he couldn’t think like that. J’onzz was right, he had a lifetime left in which to redeem himself, to serve others and find a scrap of fulfillment along the way. It was time to move forward.

The siege took less than ten minutes and not long after the British general surrendered, overwhelmed by the French attack on Redoubt 9 along with their own attack on Redoubt 10 simultaneously. It felt too good to be true. But this was just one battle—they had a war to win.

After a week of fighting, it happened. A young soldier in a red coat stood on a parapet, his movements shaky and frantic as he waved a piece of white cloth over his head. Stunned, they began to lower their weapons. Was it over? It couldn’t be.

Death counts. Negotiation. A rare smile on J’onn J’onzz’s impenetrable face. The redcoats staggering home, church bells ringing, a jaunty British drinking song—

Command is given, we must obey, and quite forget old Christmas day:
Kill a thousand men, or a Town regain, we will give thanks and praise amain.
The wine pot shall clinke, we will feast and drinke.
And then strange motions will abound.
Yet let's be content, and the times lament, you see the world turn'd upside down.

The world turned upside down. It seemed fitting. Mon-El’s cheeks hurt from smiling, victory and wine making his blood sing as they talked and drank and laughed, recounted battlefield stories and declared everything they would do once they returned home. It was hard to resist embracing every soldier he came across. They had won, they had won, they had won.

“We won!”

The crash of weight against Mon-El’s side accompanied the yell, and laughter exploded out of him. He returned the embrace with enough enthusiasm to lift Winn off his feet as the men around them heard the shout of victory and contributed with their own drunken cheers.

Mon-El set his friend down, both of them still breathless with laughter and without thinking, he gave in to the pure joy consuming his mind and pulled Winn in for a kiss. It lasted for the barest of seconds before logic returned and he pulled back, horrified. “Gods, Winn, I’m sorry, I—” He was interrupted by the crush of Winn’s mouth against his once more, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. “…Winn?”

The other man was panting, his cheeks vaguely pink. “One—one last time, yeah?”

Mon-El blinked a few times, wondering if perhaps this was all a bizarre dream from his wine-addled mind. But then again...maybe Winn wanted closure, too. There was still tension between them, chemistry, no matter how much they denied it, and this victory would be the start of a life spent apart from each other—didn’t they both deserve a more fitting goodbye?

“Alright,” he breathed out, at last. “Come on.”

They scampered back to the tent hand-in-hand, already falling into each other before the flap was closed. Mon-El pulled him down to the floor and tugged at his clothing impatiently, Winn’s teeth scraping against his neck. For a precious few minutes, or perhaps closer to an hour, there were no wives or betrotheds or strict parents to speak of—just them, panting in the half-dark and drinking each other in one last time.

Afterwards they straightened their clothing and lay side-by-side, hands clasped, pressed together shoulder to wrist. “I think I’m going to marry Imra,” Mon-El said. It had been little more than an hour since the ale, but already it felt as if the clouds in his mind were dissipating, leaving behind the clear, unfiltered truth.

Winn yawned, perhaps not feeling the same clarity. “Good. You should.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“Mmm.”

“No more being selfish,” he whispered.

“Mon?”

Mon-El looked over at him, wrinkling his nose at the occasional and much-protested nickname.

“I’m proud of you, you know.” Winn’s thumb brushed over his cheek. “I know you don’t really believe it, but—you’re a good person. One of the best I know.”

Mon-El sighed and leaned in to kiss him, soft and lingering. “Thank you.”

Winn squeezed his hand. “You’ll write, won’t you? When you get home?”

He rolled his eyes fondly. “Of course.”