#Salt in Our Wounds | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

viking-raider · 15 days

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SALT IN OUR WOUNDS - CHAPTER V

Summary-> After being found out by the Patrol, you try to act the part, to lower the suspension on Gus's presence.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 3.3k

Chapters-> I II III IV

Warnings-> PG-13: AU, Language, Deception, References to WWII, Use of the word Nazi.

Inspiration-> The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

Author’s Note-> This is a work of Fiction, pulled from my imagination.

Divider by-> @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

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

With the officers gone, Gus helped you to your feet, gently cradling your arm in his hands to look at the steadily bruising print on your bicep. His brows creased, as anger at the officer's roughness with you filled him again and guilt for getting you into this mess consumed him. Laying a hand on his chest, you offered him a soft, reassuring smile, nodding your head slightly.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, tracing the edge of the bruise with his thumb.

"It's not your fault, Gus." You cooed, brows pinching slightly. "It's not like you walked up here and asked us to take you in, We-" You looked at Edmund, who nodded at him. "took you in because we knew it was the right thing to do."

"So, he's not a worker from another village?" Your father's skeptical tone asked, as he regarded the three of you from his chair.

Edmund sighed heavily, rubbing the side of his face. "No, Pops. He's not." He answered, having not liked lying to your father to start with, despite it being needed at the time. Now he was going to have to ask something just as difficult. "She found Gus injured on the beach the other day, and we brought him in, so Dr. Tremblay could treat his wound. I know we told you he was working for me." He explained, moving across to sit beside him. "Now, however, the Patrol, and Trottier, think that Gus is her fiancé. We need to keep that story going. At least, until he's well again and, either they leave the area, or Gus can get back to where he needs to be."

"Can you do that, Papa?" You asked, frowning down at him, concerned for his well-being in the matter, knowing it was a lot asking your father to make merry with a random man who was pretending to be your future husband.

"Well, I have no choice in the matter, do I?" Mael answered, rubbing his shaky hands over his knees. "The mission has already been set up for me by the three of you. I'm just here as support."

"I'll make it as short a mission as possible." Gus replied, giving him a serious, but respectful, expression. "One Major, to another." He added, with a knowing glint in his blue eyes.

"I'll hold you to it." Mael stated, giving him a hard look.

"I guess there's no reason to finish the project downstairs." Edmund commented, sitting at the kitchen table with you and Gus, hands cupped around a fresh mug of coffee.

"Oh, I don't know." You chimed in, setting your tea down. "I really could use some shelves down there." You smirked, giving him a teasing expression.

Edmund gave you a squinty eyed look. "Use some shelves." He parroted, tapping the rim of his cup with his index finger. "Down-stairs."

"Mmhm." You nodded, brows going up, and giggling as Edmund's eyes flickered to Gus. "What are you looking at him for?"

"Wondering if he can get his fiancé under control." Edmund quipped, finally raising the coffee to his mouth.

"Well, I always heard, 'happy wife, happy life'." Gus answered, shifting in his seat, and glancing over at you. "So, if more shelves make her happy." He shrugged his shoulders, a gentle smile on his lips.

"Just because you give her everything she wants, doesn't mean she'll be happy." Edmund replied, an almost sour edge in his voice.

"Are you trying to compare me to Willamena?" You asked, cocking an offended brow at him.

Edmund finished off his coffee and pushed his chair back. "No." He said curtly, standing and striding over to the door, jerking his coat off the hook on the wall beside it. "I'll be back later." He huffed, going out.

"Is he all right?" Gus asked, look to you.

"Edmund will be fine." You sighed, shaking your head. "He and Willa, his wife, haven't been happy together in a very long time. So, it's a sore subject for him." You explained, getting up to take your and Edmund's cups to the sink, but glanced up at the clock. "I have to go down to the shop. We don't have anything for dinner in the refrigerator and I have to see when Remi wants me to work another shift."

"Is it far?" He inquired, coming up behind you and setting his own mug in the sink.

"No." You shook your head, biting your lip as you felt his intense warmth against your back. "Maybe a two minute walk."

"Why don't I go with you?" Gus suggested, cocking his head and smiling at you.

"Do you think you can manage with your wound?" You asked, a bit apprehensive. "I don't want you to over-extend yourself."

Gus's smile brightened and he reached out to squeeze your hand. "I'll be fine, I promise." He assured you, his thumb rubbing your wrist. "I could use the fresh air and sunshine. Plus, it'll help deter any of the Patrol, instead of making them more paranoid, if I stay inside a hundred percent of the time."

"You're right." You nodded, biting your lip, having not thought of what the Patrol would think of Gus staying hidden. "I'll get my shoes and something to wrap up in." You told him, before giving his hand a gentle pressure back.

"I'll wait for you here."

He let go of your hand and moved out of the way. Your cheeks felt warm as you hurried upstairs to grab your cardigan off the back of a chair in your room, pausing to fix your hair in the mirrored back of your vanity and spritz a bit of Soir de Paris. But you stopped, feeling silly.

"Acting like this is a date." You sighed, flustered, plopping down on your chair. fishing your shoes out from under the vanity and securing the buckles. "All right, I'm ready to go." You declared, coming back downstairs, finding Gus patiently waiting for you by the door.

"As am I." He answered, tipping his head politely, while pulling open the door.

"You mind her, Major." Mael called out to Gus, leaning forward in his chair to catch his eye.

"I would think of nothing less." Gus assured him, meeting your father's eye confidently. "I am her fiancé, after all." He quipped, with a wink, then followed you out. "Do we hold hands?" He asked, looking at you, but felt his heart kick at your startled reaction. "I'm only teasing you." He said softly, biting his lip.

"I know." You squeaked, flustered, before catching sight of your sister-in-law coming out of her home across the way. "Oh, that's Willa." You mumbled to Gus, before lifting your arm and waving to her.

"Morning, Willa!" You greeted her, grinning pleasantly.

Willa stared over at you and Gus, pulling a Rose-Tip out of her engraved case and her sky-blue enamel guilloche, sterling silver lighter from the front pocket of her knitted jumper. She didn't return your pleasant acknowledgement, instead lit her cigarette in a smooth and indifferent motion, eyes never moving off the two of you. Gus frowned, cocking a brow at her as he studied her standoffish demeanor; puzzled. She was just anti-social or if she was being rude.

"What’s her issue?" He asked you, his own eyes never leaving Willa.

"She's fine." You answered, sighing at your sister-in-law, your heart yearning to have a connection with her.

You had been excited upon hearing about Edmund courting someone; finally having another woman in the house to talk to, to share in the chores and just confide things to. Things you couldn't do with your father and brother.

However, from the moment you met, Willamena Badeaux had been distant from you.

She wasn't cold, per se, but she hadn't opened up with you either. Willa had been the first female in your close and personal circle, outside of the couple of elderly church ladies that would come over during the day. They would cook meals, clean the house, wash the laundry and just make sure you, Edmund and your father were well taken care of. After your mother had run off with her lover, the assistant shop clerk of the grocery store she frequented on her shopping trips. Which several of you figured were excuses to go and meet up with him; so she could cheat on your poor father.

But, the church women never went out of their way to be motherly or be a true confidant for you. Their love and friendship was out of pity. You were the little girl of a harlot and a mentally broken man, who could barely manage a job, dropping that weight onto his teenage son. So, when Willa came into the picture, you thought you would have a sister, not only to do sisterly things with, but to also learn how to be a woman. That's obviously not how it turned out.

She only came over to the house, if Edmund urged her to. She only held a conversation with you, if you were the one to start it and spurred it to keep going, otherwise she only spoke to Edmund or sat quietly. It only got worse, when the two of them married and moved into the cottage across the street from you and your father. Willa rarely came over for family dinners, meals you were still solely cooking for the four of you. Only occasionally getting a home cooked meal from her, after she and Edmund quarreled over her not performing her wifely duties and dropping the chores of two houses on you. As if you were their maid.

Part of you was sure, Willa detached from you, because she had been under the assumption Edmund only married her to be a mother figure to you. Not because he had been, once upon a time, madly in love with her.

"Do you need anything from the shop, Willa?" You asked, pulling yourself from sinking deeper into that emotional hole. "Gus and I are popping down there now." You explained, raising a hand and motioning to him, casually.

She stared at you for a long minute, before holding up her case, the sunlight glinting off the engraved bronze and mother of pearl. Nodding that you got the hint, you turned and started towards the center of town, with Gus following beside you. The sun was warm, heating the both of you, as well as the modest homes and buildings that lined the street, all converging on the limestone fountain round-a-bout in the middle of Saint-Thurney, spraying an arch of water from the top; a rainbow sparkling in the mist.

"This is really quite a quaint town." Gus commented, glancing about, following you across the sleepy street.

"It is." You replied, smiling up at him, proud of your little adoptive home. "It's almost like we're somewhere else entirely, instead of such a bustling and chaotic world." You told him, always feeling a sense of peace while in Saint-Thurney, even with a World War being waged around you and the town being occupied.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be." You added softly, stopping beside Remi's General Store. "This is the place!" You declared, waving your hand at the store's front windows, plastered with advertisements for goods he sold inside, several crate displays lined the bottom of one window. "You'll like Remi, he's super sweet." You smiled, reaching out for the door handle, only to have Gus beat you to it.

"Allow me." He purred, pulling it open and standing aside, for you to go in first. "Only proper for your fiancé to open it for you."

You gulped, biting the inside of your lip. "Right." You nodded, clearing your throat. "You're right."

Composing yourself, you went inside, finding Remi at the only register with one of the residents, Mrs. Moulin, the Mayor's wife. They looked up at you and smiled, before their expressions twisted into apprehensive confusion, spotting Gus coming in behind you.

"Morning, Remi. Mrs. Moulin." You greeted them cheerily, while trying to keep casual, like there was nothing out of the ordinary for Gus to be there with you.

"Good morning." Mrs. Moulin addressed you, her eyes still on Gus, as if she expected him to lash out at everyone.

"Who is this?" Remi asked, ignoring his manners, unlike her.

"This is Gus." You grinned brightly, looking back at him and your breath catching in your throat at the feeling of him taking your hand. "He's my fiancé." You declared, heart racing in your chest.

Both Remi and Mrs. Moulin looked floored at the announcement, particularly Remi, who you had worked for for several years and knew you'd never mentioned having a male suitor. Let alone a fiancé! So, selling Remi on Gus being your betrothed was going to be one of the other hurdles you faced, on top of the Patrol and Director General.

"When did this happen?" Remi snapped, dumbfounded and looking almost outraged. "You never mentioned anything!"

Gus rested his free hand on the small of your back, his eyes taking the other man in, sizing him up. "Keeping me your own little secret, Peanut?" He asked, a sparkle coming into his eyes as he looked at you, bashfully.

A zing shot through you, hearing him call by your nickname, your skin breaking out in goosebumps. "I have been." You smirked, bashfully turning your face into his bicep.

"How did the two of you meet?" Remi asked, continuing his interrogation.

"We knew each other from before she moved here." Gus answered, surprising you on how casually he came up with the fabricated detail. "I reached out to her just after I enlisted, and well, I proposed to her a year ago." He stated, smiling at you and caressing your back with his thumb. "Thankfully, she said, yes."

"Would you have gotten yourself shot sooner, if I said no?" You teased him back, getting lost in the moment.

Gus grinned at you, amused, but he felt something deeper. "Definitely." He nodded slowly, his blue eyes soft.

Mrs. Moulin gasped, crossing herself. "You were shot?"

"Yes, madam. I was." Gus replied, tipping his head politely to her. "That's the reason I'm here, and not back in Belgium; fighting." He stated, lightly touching his wound. "This lovely gem is taking care of me." He cooed, touching his thumb to your chin with a wink, making your knees a little weak.

"I thank you, sir." Mrs. Moulin said, straighten her petite body, then glanced around the group. "Fighting those damn Nazis."

Your mouth fell open, surprised to hear the ordinarily prim and proper lady, curse. "Mrs. Moulin." You mumbled, in a state of shock.

"Well, it's true!" She huffed at you, gathering up her grocery bags. "I'm sick of them being in my town, marching about, like they own it."

"I'd be careful with what you say, Mrs. Moulin." Remi warned, as she moved for the door. "You never know who you can trust." He said, eyeing Gus.

"Luckily, everyone here is trustworthy." You chimed, with confused surprise. "Have a good day, Mrs. Moulin. Say hello to the Mayor for me."

"Oh, I will, my dear." She answered, reaching out to rest her hand on your arm, looking between you and Gus. "You make a beautiful couple. You must let my brother, Zane, marry you when the time comes." She said, with a sweet smile.

Your cheeks blazed at her words. "We'll put him at the top of consideration." You promised her, offering her your own soft smile.

"Good." She nodded, patting your arm and gave Gus a cheeky wink, before scuttling out the door.

"Do I have a shift this week, Rem?" You asked, turning your attention back to your boss, who hadn't taken his judging eyes off of you.

"I haven't gone over the schedule yet this week." He answered, gruffly. "So, I'll have to let you know."

"All right." You nodded, feeling the cold coming off of him in waves. "Well, I have a bit of shopping to do for the house." You said, trying to shrug it off as Remi's reluctance to trust with the uncertainty of war, having lost both his brothers.

Gus stepped away from you, to grab a small hand basket from the stack by the door, holding it for you as you puttered around the modest aisles and freezers, grabbing a few items and placing them in the basket.

"Everything is so bare." He commented, watching you grab a box of oatmeal, only one of four on the scarce shelf.

"We're being rationed." You replied, sighing as you tucked a box of dry pasta in with the rest of your groceries. "Remi only gets a shipment of things once a week to stock the shelves. If you want something and don't get here early enough for it..." You trailed off, shrugging your shoulders dismissively.

“Suppose, being enlisted for so long, I’ve been a bit blind to the tribulations of civilians.” Gus frowned, his brow creasing heavily. “Not that I didn’t know about rationing. I just didn’t…” He shook his head, a hardness coming into his blue eyes. “Damned Nazis.” He growled, rolling his jaw.

You rested your hand on his elbow, looking up at him with a soft expression. “It is what it is, Gus.” You told him, quietly. “But it will change. We’ll beat them and everything will go back to how it should.”

“As it should.” He echoed, meeting your eye for a long moment.

What will happen after the War ends? No matter who wins. I’ll have to go back to the Army. I’ll have to leave her. Could I come back after my service? Would you want me to come back? Could I…

He shook his head hard, trying to shove the thoughts away. It was delusional to think such things, he was getting too involved and attached. He needed to keep a barrier between the two of you, to protect you against the danger he presented as an officer of the British Army.

“Well, what’s for dinner?” He asked, forcing that wall back up and peeking into the basket he carried for you.

“Um..” You cocked a brow at the basket’s contents taking stock of it and what you knew was at home. “I could make a simple stew. Wouldn’t be too much, but it would be something in our bellies.”

“I have faith in your cooking abilities.” Gus smiled, the sparkle coming back into his eyes.

“Kind of you.” You giggled shyly. “I think that's about all we need.” You said, biting your lip and glancing about the modest shop. “We can get rung up.” You smiled, heading towards Remi at the register. “How’s your Mum, Rem?” You asked, as he slowly added up everything in your basket.

Remi’s mother had suffered great shock at the loss of her two older sons, Duncan and Andre, who had enlisted and been shipped off to the thick of the war. Duncan had died in the Battle of Crete, taking shrapnel that nicked a serious artery and bled to death before anyone could do anything for him. The most tragic though, was Andre. His squad was ambushed by a German one and overtaken. It had been a hard time for many in the town, when they received the telegraph informing them of Andre officially being MIA. Every time Remi’s mother was seen, she was balling her eyes out and lamenting, prophesying that he too would die as her oldest did.

Two months later though, another telegraph arrived informing them that Andre had been found alive, but being held in a German Prisoner of War camp. His mother was relieved to hear he was alive, however she was still devastated to hear of his situation. Andre survived for a while in the camp. Two whole years, to be exact. But the fated telegraph ultimately arrived, one blustery day, and practically the entire town heard her screaming.

So, in that sense, you and Remi had developed a friendship based on an understanding of parents with mental health issues, inflicted by wars in some way.

“She’s doing all right.” Remi answered, not looking up from his task.

You blinked at him, ordinarily he would elaborate on how his mother was doing when you asked, even if nothing had changed about her. But you realized quickly where his reluctance came from, feeling Gus shift beside you.

Men. You rolled your eyes.

“Can I have Willa’s usual as well?” You asked, ignoring the thick air between Gus and Remi.

“Sure.” Remi nodded, half turning on his heels to grab the red and white, Rose Tip box and tucked it into the bag. “I’ll put this on your tab.” He said, setting it in your reach.

“Thanks.” You smiled uneasily at him, as Gus scooped the bag up and tucked it carefully against his good side. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” You told him, before leaving the shop and tracing your steps back home.

“What’s wrong?” Gus inquired, glancing down at you.

“Nothing.” You informed him, licking your lips and shaking your head. “Guess he’s just having a rough day.” You brushed it off.

Gus moved out of the cellar and into the cramped guest room upstairs, nothing separating the two of you now, but the wall of your closet. The two of you agreed it was much more agreeable to have him there than the cellar in the event the Patrol and the Inspector returned. They know doubt would, their suspension of Gus was all too obvious. It would also be more comfortable for him in the guestroom, giving him a softer bed, the luxury of sunlight and fresh air from the window that overlooked the back garden. As well as the beach, beyond the garden wall.

But as Gus healed and regained his strength again, he knew he had to find a way back to his men, and the war. He had to find out what happened to his men, if they were still alive. How he was to do that, was another matter altogether.

The last thing he recalled of the group was infiltrating a Nazi Intelligence Camp to rescue one of their own, Geoffrey Appleyard. They had gotten into the camp and things had gone well. He and his second hand man, Anders Lassen, moved smoothly together before nodding at each other and Gus looked back to Henry Hayes, jerking his head for the younger man to follow him. They moved swiftly through the camp, taking Nazis out left and right and making the camp practically useless for any that tried to use it again; with Freddy Alvarez setting up a plethora of explosives as a finishing touch.

Gus was proud of his men. No one had been seriously injured, beyond a handful of scratches. It had been one of their best in and out missions in the two years the unofficial, rag-tag group had been put together. That alone should have given Gus a measure of paranoia.

Missions should never go so easily.

The shot rang out and everyone in the group tensed, the jolly celebration that filled them instantly vanished as they dropped their looted goods and scrambled for their weapons, pulling out guns and bows. Gus hated being caught by surprise, especially by damned Nazis. He gritted his teeth, returning fire, while trying to assess the situation. They were a mile and a half from shore, where their boat was waiting to take them back to the safety of Allied Lines. There was a sparse covering of forest between them and their extraction point, that could give them some shelter. As much as Gus March-Phillippss hated being surprised, he hated running. But hearing Anders call out that there were too many and ammo was running low, Gus gave the signal to retreat to the boat, taking up the rear to ensure none of his men lagged behind.

It was him that lagged behind.

He felt the hot burn of lead piercing his side, faltering only momentarily, his eyes focused on the back of Lassen’s head, breath from his lungs starting to wheeze in his throat and his vision spot. Gus’s memory skipped in and out from there, like a scratched record. Spotting the boat ahead of the group and urging them forward, the heat of blood soaking into his clothing and his knees feeling like jelly. He couldn’t recall if he made it to or onto the boat with the others, then somehow fell overboard, or something more happened.

There were dark bits lurking in his mind of freezing cold enveloping him, no doubt of him in the Channel.

“Your father’s very into following the movements of the War.” Gus said one morning, sipping a cup of coffee as the two of you finished breakfast.

“He is.” You nodded.

“Does he only follow the major events or…” He trailed off, meeting your eye.

“No, he follows whatever is reported on or gossiped about in newspapers and the radio.” You replied, sensing his intent and sudden interest in your father’s hobby. “Why?” You asked, cautiously.

“I need to know what happened to my men.” Gus told you, bluntly and honestly. “I have to know if they’re still alive, dead or in prisoner of war camps. Perhaps your father has some information that could be useful to me, on that front.”

“How?” You shook your head, confused.

“I was injured during a mission.” He divulged to you, in a low voice. “It wasn’t an official or authorized mission, but there might be a possibility of it being reported on.” He cast an eye over his shoulder to the sitting room, where your father lounged in his usual spot. “Do you think he’d discuss it with me?”

You snorted at him and lifted your tea cup to your lips. “Do I think so? It’s more a matter of getting him to quit, once you get him going.” You said, taking a deep gulp of the rich, brown liquid. “But, yes.” You nodded, assuring him. “I’m sure my father would likely share any information he has on the War with you. Just wait until later in the morning. He likes to nap after breakfast, and he’ll be more receptive and energetic about the subject.”

“Excellent.” Gus smiled, patting your arm. “Would you like to go on a walk with me, to pass the time?”

“I think that would be quite agreeable.” You cooed, finishing off your tea.

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viking-raider · 3 months

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Salt in Our Wounds - Chapter I

Summary-> You and your family live in a tiny coastal town, on the French side of the English Channel, during the Second World War. Things aren't easy for the four of you, for obvious reasons, with France being under German Occupation. But things become ever more complicated, when you find a wounded man washed ashore and you feel obligated to help him.

Dragging your family and town into a dangerous situation.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 4.3k

Warnings-> PG: Blood, Language, Infidelity

Inspiration-> The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

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

Climbing and cloudless, the sun beared down on the sapphire English Channel below. Its roaring waves lapped against the shore of one of France's many serene and far-reaching beaches, washing in bits of seaweed and sea life with its eddies and tides. A trio of gulls circled above one area of the shore, letting out their shrill call in agitated excitement, while making mock dives for the prize they had their beady eyes on.

You, out on an early morning, seaside walk, lifted your hand against the shining sun, to study the sea birds. Interested in what they were so adamant about, but also felt cautious, as you approached. Since times were not the best to find surprises on the beach. Especially not here, along the Channel. But you couldn't stop your curiosity, and edged ever closer to the birds and their would-be meal. The nearer you got, the more you felt a growing alarm, seeing the foamy, salt water tinged with something red.

You froze, horrified to see the water rushing by your bare feet. Realizing it was blood. Following the tentacles of blood a few meters up the beach, you found the shock of a lifetime.

Startling back with a yelp, you tripped over the wet hem of your skirt and tumbled backwards, falling hard and knocking some of the air out of your lungs. Eyes fixed on a limp hand gently floating in the water, the skin of the finger-pads wrinkled from long water exposure. But it was the man attached to the arm that alarmed you, his thickly bearded face turned to one side and rocking to the ebb and flow of the water he laid half submerged in, a wound somewhere on his person seeping out around him.

You were sure he had to be dead, why else would he wash ashore in the freezing Channel water. You had only been sitting in it for a few, short minutes and were already shivering, while he only stirred because of the current.

Poor man. You thought, your brow pinching with heartfelt sympathy for him and whoever his family was.

Finally getting to your feet, you twisted some of the water out of your skirt, frowning to see some of his blood had soaked into the rough fabric. But there was no help for that. You knew you'd have to return to the village and inform the authorities of him. So they could retrieve his body. Especially before the village kids found him. The evil little rascals. They enjoyed poking at anything dead that washed ashore. You'd seen them pestering a poor seal corpse just last week. But you also knew, you should actually make sure he was deceased, before running off to inform Director General Trottier about him. You just needed to find the courage to draw closer and touch him.

To hold a hand against his nose, in search of any breath.

“Perhaps I should just go get the authorities to do this?” You mumbled to yourself, wringing your hands anxiously. “They have the experience.” You tried to reason, looking over your shoulder towards the village. “But what if he is still alive.” You said, looking back at him. “And he dies, while I run back for help.”

“Christ, why did you have to wash up here?” You huffed, a rush of frustrated confidence flooding you.

You waded to him and bent, bringing your dripping hand up to his nose and held still for a long time. Wanting to make sure it was actually his breath against your palm, and not the wind. The longer you left your hand there, the more positive you became that this strange man was still, to some degree, alive.

That just left the conundrum of what to do with him.

You needed to get him out of the icy water, that was for sure. If he didn't die from his wound and blood loss, he would surely suffer from hypothermia. He only had on a thin, long sleeve and half-button down, collared shirt and pants of the same material, paired with suspenders, belt and boots.

“What were you up to?” You frowned at him, seeing he was bleeding from a wound to the right side, before hooking your arm under his shoulder and bracing it under his, then started pulling his heavy body further up dry land; as far as you could get him. “Mmph!” You grunted, laying him down in the sand, unable to carry him any further.

“Oh gosh.” You panted, flicking back several windblown wisps of hair out of your face. “You are a beast of a man.” You were about to try and move him a little bit more, when you heard your name being called, and felt your heart jolt into your throat. “Oh, Christ.” You fretted, hands beginning to shake, sure you were busted by one of the patrol officers.

You frantically looked around, but there was nowhere to hide the man, you were in the open and the beach was mostly flat and smooth. So, you did the one feeble thing you could think of, you rushed around and put yourself between them and him.

Though, you found it to be useless.

“What are you doing?” Your brother huffed, coming up to you, breathless, before finally spotting the unconscious man you were trying to shield. “Who the hell is this?” He barked, waving a hand behind you.

You started to lie to him, but saw the look in his eye and gave that up. “I found him in the water.” You blurted out, turning around to face him. “He's still alive. Barely. He's been wounded in the side by something. But I pulled him out of the water and I was going to get help.” You looked at your brother, eyes wild. “However, you showed up.”

Your brother looked at you, critically, obviously furious. “That's a bullet wound!” He hissed at you, grabbing the front of the man's shirt and rolling him onto his uninjured side, to get a closer look.

“He's been shot!” You gasped, leaning over to see. “We have to help him, Edmund.”

“Help him!” Edmund barked, lifting a brow at you. “Are you quite out of your mind! If the Patrol finds him with us, they'll finish killing him and likely throw us in an interment.”

“Edmund.” You whispered, gasping the back of his arm.

He stared at you for a long second, then growled down at the man. “Fine.” He huffed, begrudgingly. “I just don't know how you expect us to move him, without getting caught by the Patrol.” He said, looking back towards the village, it was a good two hundred yards away, plus the eighty or so yards from the edge of the beach, along the edge of the village and to where you lived with your elderly father.

“What about your truck?” You perked up, looking at him, your eyes bright with the idea. “We can carry him to the edge of the beach, hiding him. I'll stay nearby, to keep an eye on him, while you go get your truck and come back. Then, we'll put him in the back and cover him with some of your tarps. Perhaps, take a short drive to some place and go back home. To reduce suspicion.”

Edmund stared at you, his expression conveying how skeptical he was about your plan, before he shook his head and threw up his hands. “If we get caught, I'm going to be so angry with you!” He chided, grabbing the man beneath the arms, much like you had. “Grab his feet.” He huffed at you, jerking his head at the man's boots.

“Yes, right!” You nodded, flustered, rushing around and grabbing his ankles. “Oh gosh, even his legs are heavy.” You groaned, stumbling to keep up with Edmund's quick pace as he rushed down the beach, wanting to work quickly before anyone came along.

“How do we not know this man isn't one of them?” Edmund puffed, breath wheezing in his throat as the exertion became too much for him, but he pushed through it.

You frowned at your brother, then looked at the man, and studied his pale face. Something in your gut told you he wasn't a collaborator or one of the enemies inflicting war on so much of Europe and Humanity.

“We don't.” You murmured, biting the corner of your lip. “However, I just feel that he's not.”

“Oh, you feel it.” Edmund huffed, mocking you. “Well, let's go on a woman's intuition.”

“There's no need to be crass, Edmund.” You barked at him, irritated by his remark. “You have no more evidence that he is, than I do that he's not. But you can't tell me if he was one of them, they'd not have called the patrol to come out and look for him by now.”

Refraining from answering for a short time, to save his breath, while you moved him to the edge of the beach. Resting him beside some brush and rocks that were there, Edmund finally answered you, wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

“Aye, you're right. I don't think they would have left him.” He sighed, staring down at him, still troubled by the situation. “I'll be back. But if you see a patrol coming, don't try saving him. Just turn and walk away.” He told you, grasping your wrist and staring hard into your eyes. “Let them have him.”

“He's not worth your life.” He said, his eyes pleading with you.

“Go, get your truck.” You answered, softly.

Rolling his eyes, Edmund headed back towards home, walking at a quick pace, but not fast enough to hopefully draw any attention or suspicion. He turned the corner onto the street your family lived on. You and your father, Mael, lived in the cottage across the road from where your brother lived with his wife, Willa. He said a silent prayer, finding the street empty, minus a few vehicles, including his truck, that he used for his trade as a handyman.

“This is going to get us killed.” Edmund muttered to himself, pulling open the driver's door and sliding into the worn, black and leather bench seat, then pulled down the sun visor for the keys.

The truck roared to life and Edmund maneuvered it away from the curb, nervously drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I could have been a Private in the Army, fighting in Belgium or some place. Maybe even join the Rebellion, help liberate this country.” He rambled, gritting his teeth. “But no! I get stuck with a medical condition and a sister that wants to save some bloke that could be a Collaborator!”

You paced nervously, giving the man quick glances, then shooting a look towards the road, mentally urging your brother to hurry. It felt like every eye in the village was secretly watching you. You wouldn't be surprised if at least three pairs were watching from some high window. But you didn't dare look at any of the windows that lined the other side of the road from the beach. Knowing if you did happen to meet someone's nosy eye, it would only implicate them later on, if you and Edmund were caught.

“Thank Jesus.” You gasped, hearing the rumble of your brother's truck coming up the road, though it did little to dampen your anxiety.

Edmund pulled his truck to a stop and got out, never killing the engine as he moved to the back, dropping the tailgate. “Is he still alive?” He asked, coming over to you and glancing at the man.

“Yeah.” You nodded, biting your lip. “I can actually see his chest rise now.”

“Great.” Edmund sighed, carding a hand through his hair. “Looks like the fool is going to live.” He said, grabbing him under the arms again. “Let's get him in the truck. Rounds are going to start soon.”

You grabbed his feet and helped haul him over to the bed of the truck. It was a bit of a hassle, but the two of you finally managed to get your mystery man in and covered up with a couple of the cloth drop tarps Edmund used for work, making sure he was able to breathe. It was just as Edmund was securing the gate closed, that the hard tap of a boot heel echoed down the street towards the two of you, causing your stomach wrench and Edmund to grunt; catching sight of the Patrol Officer through the back window and windshield.

“It's just the kid.” He muttered to you, under his breath. “Go, get in the trunk.” He told you, taking a deep breath.

“Ed-”

“I said, go.” He hissed, the muscles of his jaw flexing.

Gulping and trying to act casual, you walked around to the passenger side, yanking open the heavy door, as the young Patrol Officer reached the truck's front bumper. You gave him a sweet smile and a nod of your head, then slipped into the cab and pulled the door shut. So he couldn't start a conversation with you. He stopped by the window of the driver's door, giving you a wide and overexcited smile, then turned his attention to Edmund.

“A good morning, yeah?” He greeted your brother, who had started for the driver's seat.

“Yeah.” Edmund replied, glancing up at the sky. “Looks like a very good morning, indeed.” He said, grabbing the door handle.

“Truck?” The officer motioned, a questioning look on his face.

“It's my truck.” Edmund answered, frowning at him, not quite understanding.

“What's—in?” He asked, trying hard to work through the language barrier.

“My trade tools.” Edmund told him, turning to face him, putting himself between the younger man and the truck. “I'm a carpenter.” He tried to explain, reaching into the back and pulled out his tool belt, holding it up for him to see.

“Ah.” The Officer nodded, smiling. “And, that?” He asked, pointing to the tarps.

“Nothing.” Edmund said, setting his belt down. “She...” He pointed over to you. “Found a dead seal out on the beach and pestered me into taking it away, before any of the village kids found it.” He hoped to convince him and prayed he wouldn't want to take a look. But, that worry soon passed, watching the kid blanch.

“Yeah, you go.” He gulped, taking a step back, as if he had gotten a whiff of the dead seal underneath the tarps.

“Well, have a good day.” Edmund smiled, giving him a small wave and yanked his door open.

“That took a moment.” You muttered as he slammed his door.

“He was asking questions, that's why.” He huffed back, glancing into the rear view and relaxing as he watched the kid continue on with his Patrol, not look back at you. “Luckily for us, he's squeamish.”

“How does someone that's squeamish get drafted?” You commented, shaking your head.

“Well, he's not really doing anything in the War, now is he?” Edmund snapped, glancing over at you, an offended glint in his eyes. “He's a damn Patrol Officer for a town his Country is occupying. He's not seeing any of the real action.”

“I'd laugh to think if they let his rifle have bullets in it.”

You snorted, bringing your hand to your mouth, in an attempt to cover it. “I'm sorry.” You said, when Edmund shot you a look. “But that boy does look like he'd injure himself with a pocketknife.” You explained, staring back at your brother, who held his angered expression for three seconds longer, then burst, filling the cab with his hearty laugh.

Edmund could never be angry with you, or not longer than a few minutes at least. The two of you were ten years apart, but were closer than pearls in an oyster. Edmund had been planned by your parents, well mostly by your mother, who thought a child would help your father snap out of his shell shock from his time in the First World War. But having a screaming child in the house had only seemed to exacerbate it. Until Edmund was four years old, when he started to show an interest in Mael's metals and memorabilia.

As for you, as Edmund always put it, seemed to have just shown up one day.

He didn't remember your mother being pregnant, only her going away for a few days and coming back home with you in her arms. He remembered her rushing about the house every time you made the slightest sound and telling him to make sure you didn't cry. Which, honestly, wasn't all that often. You had been a quiet and easy baby, compared to him. But he looked after you, showing you his favorite metals of your father's, and telling you how he had gotten them in the War.

When you were five and Edmund was fifteen, the two of you came home one day from school to find your father in one of his episodes and your mother gone. Edmund had sent you next door to stay with a neighbor, while he worked on calming your father down and found out your mother had been seeing someone and ran off with them. It took Edmund calling your father's doctor to finally calm him down, giving him a sedative. The physician had suggested moving somewhere else, that the city life was too much for Mael's nerves, somewhere quiet and abundant with sea air. That would do him a world of good.

That's how the three of you ended up in your quaint, coastal village on the French side of the English Channel. It had a population of just under five hundred. A real, everyone-knows-everyone community. They welcomed the three of you warmly. It's where Edmund had met and fell in love with Willa. It's where the four of you were now under the thumb of German occupation, and with a strange man in the bed of your brother's truck, just passing by the last building and into the rolling hills, that took you to the nearest town.

“All right, wise woman.” Edmund sighed, folding his arms against the steering wheel and leaning forward. “What's your grand plan on getting your Robinson Crusoe into the house?” He asked, cocking a brow at you and dying to hear it.

You had sat beside your brother for the last twenty minutes trying to figure out that very plot point. Part of you really wished whoever this man was, would do the two of you a favor and come back around to consciousness. Then, maybe, you could just say you found him injured on the side of the road and help him into the house. However, you knew if that happened, word would spread and the Director General would be knocking on your door, demanding to see him.

“I don't have one.” You finally admitted. “I shouldn't have gotten us into this mess, Edmund. Maybe, we should just turn him in?”

“Oh no!” He snapped at you, straightening up. “That one Patrol Officer already thinks he's a dead seal! If we go back into the village and confess, we'll be in deeper hot water than if we'd been up front.” He rambled, dragging both hands through his hair, in his agitation.

“Could we keep him in the truck til night fall?” You suggested, weakly.

“And if he wakes up by then?” He asked, blowing a hole through it.

You sighed softly, glancing down at your hands as they rested in your lap, but frowned seeing the brownish outline of dry blood on the light blue fabric. You were rubbing at it, when an idea finally popped into your head and looked over at Edmund.

“How heavy are all of your tarps rolled up together?” You asked him, lifting a brow, curiously.

“They can be pretty hefty.” He replied, rubbing the underside of his scruffy jaw.

“So, it would be almost believable, say we carry him into the house, wrapped in a few, under the pretense we're making a couple renovations to the house?” You inquired, your eyes steady on your brother's face. “It's not like we and the village don't know that Papa and I's cottage need them.”

“Badly.”

Edmund sat there, staring out the windshield, as he processed the likelihood of your little idea working. He drew his bottom lip in between his teeth, pressing his top lip down on it for a moment, before popping them forward, a slow wag of his head building into a nod.

“It might work.” He finally said, convincing himself of it. “I'll have to bring in a few of my tools and spend some time there every day, to make it look like I'm actually putting the work in.” He built on top of your plan. “Of course, I'm not leaving you and Pops with this guy, so I'll be coming over anyway.”

“We could use the old cellar room in the basement to hide him.” You chimed in. “In case, someone from the Patrol or anyone from the village comes over.”

“That's a good idea.” Edmund nodded, licking his lips. “I can build something, along that wall, for a hidden door into the cellar.” He said, already mapping out the plans in his head. “This could actually work, Peanut!” He grinned over at you.

“There's the confidence I love seeing in my Captain!” You beamed back, slapping him on the knee. “We should get going too. It looks like our beautiful morning is turning into a dark afternoon.” You said, peeking at the sky. “I'm worried it'll start raining on our friend back there.”

“Oh, he's our friend now?” Edmund teased you, pushing open his door. “We don't even know his name! But, by damned, he's our friend!”

You smirked at him, shaking your head. “I'm just trying to be positive, Eddie.”

“I know.” He replied, a gentle smile on his face, as he reached over to playfully pinch your cheek.

“Quit!” You laughed, slapping his hand away. “You brute!”

“We should do it here. Where no one can see us.” He suggested, heaving a sigh as he got out.

“That's a smart idea.” You nodded, following suit.

Edmund did a quick look around, before dropping the tailgate and hopping into the bed, beside your friend. You peeked over the side of the trunk, watching Edmund pull away the tarp from him, and let out a small breath of relief to see him still breathing. But frowned seeing the small pool of blood underneath him.

“I'll need new tarps after this.” Edmund commented, snarkily. “There's nothing I can say to explain blood stains on them. Short of sawing my arm off.”

“I'll compensate you for them.” You replied, pulling yourself up beside him.

“With what money, exactly?” He asked, cocking a brow at you.

“Hey, I get a decent enough salary working at Remi's store.” You cut back at him. “I've been helping you keep food on our tables.”

Edmund nodded, not about to discredit you on that. “True enough, Peanut.” He replied, then returned to the task at hand. “I'm going to turn him to his good side. I want you to support him and his head, while I situate the tarps to go underneath him.” He instructed you, carefully pushing his hands underneath the injured man.

You nodded, as Edmund grunted with effort to lift and roll him towards you. Grabbing onto the thigh of his pants and cradling his head in your palm, you watched Edmund spread and straighten out the tarps, draping one half of them over the side of the truck. You could feel his faint and warm breath on your forearm, coming in an irregular pattern, but it gave you an odd comfort to feel it, nonetheless.

“All right, that's all of them. Put him down on his back again.” Edmund pointed to the smoothed out tarps as he stood outside the truck now.

Biting your lip, you pushed up on your knees and leaned forward, trying to roll him onto his back as gently as possible. Unsure of how much he could feel. You didn't want to cause him any more pain than necessary as you situated him, catching a slight twitch of his brow as you let go of his trousers, only supporting his head.

“Sorry.” You mumbled to him, automatically, wincing.

“Come on, let's get him covered up, so we can go.” He rushed you, feeling antsy and the cool, damp air stir around him, indicating the imminent rain.

Tenderly letting go of his head and reaching out for the other half of the tarp, you carefully covered him up, tucking it in around him, mindful of the still seeping wound, while trying to make it not look so much like a body in a rug. Nodding at Edmund, you climbed back out of the truck and he rearranged some of his tools, hoping to add to the disguise.

“Here's to hopin'!” Edmund huffed, starting the truck and backing off the outlook, he'd pulled onto after putting several minutes between you and the village. “Or all three of us will be dead seals!”

You and Edmund laughed, having a light moment, before the village came into view and the sobering resolve of action came back over you.

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