Sans Toi

(A/N) Hello! This is a little piece I really enjoyed writing. My beta reader (the best sister in the world) seems to think a bit of darkness is what I'm good at, so I gave it a shot! A little bit of introduction may help. This fic takes place many years after the end of the war and therefore class titles are a thing of the past. I used canonically appropriate names where I could and some from other fics I have written and also some from my sister's stories. They are listed thusly:

Spy – Antoine

Sniper – Lawrence

Medic – Josef

Heavy – Misha

Engineer – Dell

Scout – Kit

Pyro – ?

Demo – Tavish

Soldier – Jayne

I also threw in an OC from something else I wrote a long time ago and never finished.

Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

The eerie stillness took hold. And slowly, we all began to sink into it. I felt like I was disappearing, like if I held my hand in front of my face it would be fading into darkness. I saw all of it even as I closed my eyes: everyone tip-toeing around each other donned in black from head to heel, puffy pastel flowers dressed in rings of silver and gold, frowning faces and tear-streaked cheeks, the large wooden casket at the front of the room. My feet stayed where they were planted – as if the soles of my leather shoes were nailed to the flat, heavily- trodden carpeting – while my eyes burned in my skull to catch one more glimpse of him. An image popped into mind of when our budding romance had just begun to bloom; his ruffled brown hair fluttering in the wind as it swept up from the lake and the way the light in his eyes danced as the water's reflection took hold of them. He was utterly beautiful. The picture of peace and tranquility, that man. Now though, his body was cold. No sun to warm his face, no stars to lighten dead eyes, no moon to make him smile. Now that he was gone, no light reached my world. All around was the darkness.

A gentle touch to my shoulder brought me back to that horrid room. I opened my eyes to be greeted with a familiar face twisted into a mournful, sympathetic smile. "Hey, there pal. Long time no see, huh?" The short, squat man pulled me into a hug. He was just as strong and completely unaware of my penchant for personal space as I remembered him being.

"Dell," I replied, patting him on the back when he released me to my full height. "It's good to see you, my friend."

Dell smiled again. His sad eyes lowered and he rubbed his stubble-laden chin with a calloused hand. "I do wish it had been under better circumstances. I'm real sorry. He was a good man, Antoine."

"Thank you," was all I could muster. There were no words, no comforting expressions of empathy and remorse any of these crows could utter that could remove the sorrow . . . the guilt of being alive while the love of my life was not. But my old friend was trying, and for that I was grateful.

The shorter man shifted from one foot to the other and his eyes darted around, looking for some lead in conversation. "Quite the turnout. Have you seen the rest of the old team? I've caught sight of a couple, but ain't gotten to talk to 'em much. Thought it'd be more appropriate to talk to you first. You know . . . pay my respects and all . . ."

God bless his soul, he was trying. I tried a smile and it seemed to stick this time. "Will you be staying in town long?" I asked him.

He looked happy to talk of something else entirely. Dell shrugged, "A few days I suppose. It's a long trek back to Texas and you know flame-head will want to see the sights." He laughed, head bobbing as he searched the crowd. "Speaking of, I better go find out where that little bugger ran off to."

He patted my shoulder again as a leave of goodbye before I called out to him softly. "Tomorrow night the old team is coming over to catch up. You two should come."

"Will do partner," he grinned before disappearing into the crowd.

A good man, insufferable at times sure, but it had been so long since the end of the war that I had grown to miss my comrades. Days spent outdoing each other on the battlefield, afternoons with them playing cards and drinking away our livers before Medic had to replace them in the morning, nights spent with . . .

A heavy sigh pulled at my lungs as a pressure sat upon my heart. I was sure I would never get used to that feeling of emptiness that his passing ripped into me. I am no longer whole, I thought with disdain. My eyes drifted back to the casket. It was a marvelous piece of craftsmanship, as he would have liked – dark wooden outside polished with oils and fastened with black iron clasps and hinges, inside upholstered in white linen and from my place on the carpeting I could just see the peak of the rim of that accursed hat he always wore. The mortician had begged to remove it, said it was tacky, but I insisted because Lawrence wouldn't have had it any other way.

I supposed now was the time to be brave. The crowd around him had slacked off and the last person was pulling away from the stage. I ordered my feet to carry me to him, one final time. My steps were heavy and my numb heart's beating was nearly palpable as I made my way up the aisle. Women encased in heavy perfume glanced over with wet eyes, trying to send their most reassuring smiles, but it was all for naught once I reached the wooden box.

My first thought was that it didn't look like him. The skin was too pale and the clothes too neat. He was dressed in a suit, not his dingy work shirt or his favorite vest. He looked like a different man, and at the same time he looked too much like himself; too much to look past and forget that it was him that lay there beneath me. I reached down, my hands finding his leathery dead fingers and gripping tightly in hopes of spreading my warmth – my life – into him. It was no use. Of course it was no use. I was dead inside too now, and the dead cannot bring back the dead.

I looked up to his closed eyes and, against my better judgement, I did half-expect to see their bright shining brown looking at me again. I could hear his voice in my head so clearly. "Oi fooled you," he'd say as he rose from his death bed and wrap his lanky arms around me like he always did when we embraced. But none of that happened. He stayed down, and my heart stayed broken. I looked away, but my vision caught on a glimmer of yellow against the starch black and white. That idiot of a mortician hadn't placed his aviators with his personal belongings to go home with me. I cursed him silently and could almost hear Lawrence's chuckle at the back of my mind. His glasses lay folded as neatly as his hands over his chest just beside his head. I picked them up and held them in a clenched fist. No need to cry in front of all these mourners; that was for later when I would be alone with my thoughts and memories of a life left too soon. As I stepped away from the casket, lingering only slightly to say goodbye before turning to leave, I tucked his beloved aviators into the breast pocket of my jacket.

I did not know my body could take this much alcohol. With palms pressed firmly into my eye sockets until the sparks of light danced over the black, I shook my head at the sloshy mush that was my brain. Five empty bottles littered the small table I'd made my den at in the kitchenette of our– my apartment. I reached for another bottle, ignoring for only a second his aviators placed carefully in between them – the focal point of my drinking. Blindly my fingers fumbled about, but they were over-zealous and clanked the bottles violently. Several clattered off the surface and crashed to the floor, sending slivers of glass every which way. Merde. Lucky none of them were full like I had hoped.

I rose from the chair on shaky, uncoordinated legs as the world in my vision dipped and swirled around me. I sucked in a gulp of air and tried to maneuver past the glass. A large shard was in the way and, while attempting to avoid it, I tripped over another and nearly fell face first on the shards. The lunge across the pool of glass was just enough to get me past it and one step closer to the refrigerator.

Muttering curses and all level of obscenities to anything I thought of, I rummaged through the shelves and, with a hoarse cry of success, I found one last bottle. Popping off the top, I heard a voice in my head that was not my own.

You sure that's a good idea, mate?

The rim of the bottle froze just at the tip of my lips. I could smell the cheap liquor on my own breath and I cringed. Damn that man! I couldn't even drink him away. "I don't care," I said blandly out loud before downing the bottle with fervor, in spite of that voice. That voice – with an accent thicker than my own and with a resonance that seemed to linger in my mind – was just as I remembered it. It had only been a few days ago that I had last heard it; goodbye he said as he walked out the front door, I had kissed him goodbye. That much I can be thankful for. I did get to say goodbye, however briefly it may have been. This damned bottle would have to make a poor substitute for the fleeting memory of warm lips and sweet words.

I went for it again and the voice returned. This time, though, it did not come from inside my head. It came from the kitchen door.

"Booze won't make you forget me. You do know that, right?"

He was there. Right there, looking just as he always had. Leaning against the doorframe with those lanky arms crossed over his chest and his bright brown eyes shining like that day at the lake so many years ago, he watched with a grin pulling apart his lips. I felt my chest tighten and my breath hitch in my throat. Was he truly here? Did he come back to me after all?

Then I remembered the bottle in my hand. I closed my eyes and hung my head. You are drunk, you fool. That isn't really him. A pained sigh escaped me as I raised that subpar alcohol to my lips again. "I can try," I bit back. Real or not, a booze creation or otherwise, I couldn't shake the spark of hope that had fluttered to life in my chest at the sight of him. The flame had been snuffed out so fast it hurt.

His grin fell and his gaze turned more serious. He shifted against the wall. "Oi did expect more from you, you know. Oi thought this whole 'drink til ye rot' mess was beneath you."

"Well considering you are nothing more than something zis bottle 'as conjured up, I won't bother taking offence to that."

For a long moment, I was lost in his eyes. The thought was childish, but how true it was. All thought process ceased and all I saw was a pair of bright brown eyes made dull. In my mind's eye though, it was not his face I was looking at . . . it was the one in the casket. The one that was his face and was not his face. The shine of life had left and what remained was a hollow reminder of what once was, and the memory was too painful for words.

I needed more alcohol, to forget the face staring back at me. Shaking again, I stood tall and attempted to walk towards the living room, sluggishly dodging his hand when it shot out to steady me with a muttering curse not to touch me. I was several paces away when his voice called out again, sounding this time almost wounded. "You don't think Oi'm real." It was a question, I knew, but it was one I did not want to entertain. Truthfully, that small ember of hope waiting to be ignited was itching to burn, but I would not allow it. The voice got more insistent. "Antoine," he demanded. He had moved and was hovering nearby at my side. I could just barely see him in the corner of my vision.

I wanted to look . . . God, how I wanted to look . . . but to see that face staring at me with worry written across its features like I knew it was at that moment would have been too much. Why did this vision – this imitation of the man I loved – delight in haunting me so? "Leave me," I muttered to the specter. It was barely an utterance, but I knew he heard.

I saw his form stiffen and draw back. His voice came again from behind me. "You don't mean that." He sounded confused, hurt and more insistent. "You don't. Not really. It's really me, Oi'm here. Come on, give me that."

He reached for the drink in my hand and I pulled it from him with a shout. "Don't touch me! You – you aren't . . . just leave me to my inebriation." My words were slurring but I didn't care. I wanted to feel numb again. I wanted to forget him.

That thought made me angry at the face staring back at mine. How could I forget him if he was there? I'd just have to drink more.

"Love, please. This isn't you." I refused to give in. I refused to acknowledge. He got irritated. "For fuck's sake put that bottle down!"

"No!" I spat back with my back turned to the visage while rummaging for more. I gave a heaving sigh that shook on its way out. "No. I know you are not real. You are what my mind 'as made in some way to cope, to . . . to . . ." to grieve. To mourn, I wanted to say, but could not even admit it to the spectral image my subconscious had concocted. How pitiful. I spoke gruffly, "Go away. Don't you think I 'ave suffered enough?"

I heard a low growl behind me. He was angry. I used to love riling him up to the point of frustration, but now it only made me sad. Every memory of him made me sad.

"Antoine," he commanded. "Look at me."

With tired eyes rolling back heavily, I turned and immediately wished I hadn't. "Mon Dieu!" What was the face of my lover not two seconds before was a rotting piece of meat destroyed beyond repair. Skin hung in jagged ribbons ripped from bone showing on his arms, legs, and chest. Bits of rock and gravel were imbedded into the flesh that was still intact, and his mouth drooped at one side at an awkward and painful angle. Blood flowed freely from his punctured neck and ran down the front of his shredded clothes and bruised skin until it pooled onto the floor around him. He was a ghastly sight as his scowl spread across his slack lips. As the horrible visage spoke, a peak into his mouth showed some of his teeth missing, being replaced by clots of blood the words formed around. "This is what Oi looked like in the last moments of my life. After that bloody car hit me, Oi flew from my bike and hit the pavement. Hard. Fast enough to turn me into this, but Oi was still alive. Oi was still alive when Oi felt my broken ribs jab at me every time Oi tried to breathe. Oi could still hear the sound of the car skidding away, leaving me there to die . . . but not right away. First my lungs filled with so much blood I drowned in it and my last few words were to beg God that Oi make it through this okay. And the bloody bastard let me die that way! In the middle of a fuckin' road, cold and alone! So you don't bitch to me about sufferin'!"

I turned away too fast and wretched onto the floor. That was horrible. He was horrible. "Salaud." was all I could think. He didn't need to show me that, to have that visage tainting my last remaining memories of him alive and beautiful. "You bastard," I said again. I was crying now into the hand covering my mouth. No one should ever see their loved ones like that – broken and torn apart by death. It wasn't natural and it wasn't right. I should not have had to see that.

He appeared beside me and, with a heavy sigh that sounded laced with regret, he tentatively placed a hand on my back. I wanted to pull away, to rip his hand away from any contact with me for what he had just done, but I couldn't. His touch told me he was there. Even if he wasn't real, it was a relief in the core of my broken heart. "Come on you," his rough voice softened to a whisper, "let's get you to bed." Somehow, I knew that when I woke the next morning, I would not remember him all but pulling me up the stairs, nor would I recall pooling underneath the covers of our bed or his body pressed against mine. And I was sure that the memory of his long fingers toying with the loose hairs around my face would not last, but for those few precious moments, I knew. I knew he was there.

Dawn's early light triumphantly broke through heavy curtains and was just beginning to breach the one line of defense that was the edge of the blanket pulled over my eyes. I winced and clinched them shut even more; both from the assault on my retinas and the colossal headache pounding behind them. The volume of sound was too much to bear – the alarm clock on my bedside table ticked away like a hammer striking a metal sheet and birds outside the window mocked me as they screamed – and I groaned out in pain. There was a reason I had not consumed that much alcohol since secondary school. This was the reason. I was not known for my tolerance of pain.

A whole new ache reached out and grabbed hold of every nerve in my body as I tried to recall just why I had done this to myself; visions of a casket, people in black, a face that was not, a face that was too horrible to imagine a second time, and a voice that should not have been there. With a sigh, I turned my head to glance at his empty side of our bed.

Brown eyes met mine.

I held back my scream as my head jerked away and my hands flew up to shield my eyes. Pushing them in hard enough to see stars and as I tried to catch my breath, I whispered less to the eyes and more to myself, "You are not real, you are not there. Because if you are there, then I 'ave gone insane . . ." Slowly, I lifted one palm away and, when my vision returned to normal, all that was there was the blankets neatly tucked in just as the morning he left them empty. I looked around the room hastily searching for someone that was not there.

More sorrow than I had anticipated coursed through me like a mighty wave; pulling and tugging at every fiber of my being until I felt as frayed as the end of a rope. The hole that last night had filled with alcohol and other spirits was now left barren and I felt a small crack at the bottom rip open, spilling out any more resolve I had left tucked away. I broke. A sob pulled from my chest and up through my throat as a hoarse cry of agony slipped passed the vise there that had been holding it back. It takes a man to admit to crying, but I did not feel like a man. At that moment, I did not feel whole. My love – my other half – was gone forever. My hands clenched at my sides. For the first time in my life, I prayed. I prayed to whichever god would listen to take away the pain, the hurt, the grief. It was anguish; torment. Misery.

The gods did not answer, and then a flash of a voice cut through the fog of my mind. The bloody bastard let me die that way. I cursed every god to be believed in that they took away the one good thing I'd ever had in my life and turned it into this ache in my chest. I threw my pillow across the room with a shout in anger muddling with my grief.

A few moments of seething rage passed and the agony turned to a dull throbbing similar to a heartbeat. A heavy sigh that shook my form seemed to soothe the roaring waves of grief for now. I thought of his face; his real face, with bright eyes that shone brighter than stars that he insisted on hiding behind those infernal glasses and a smile that could light my way in darkness much like a lighthouse in a storm guides a ship to harbor. He was my rock, my guide. In many ways he was my salvation. Now, he was only a memory I clung to for dear life. And in honor of that memory, I would not act like this. He would not want me to mourn him so fiercely. He would want me to live on with the happy and forget the sad; but I supposed the first steps to living are to remember the dead and continue anyway.

Reluctantly, I pulled myself from the bed and made it into the shower. Shaving with trembling hands proved to be quite the feat, but I prevailed with nary a scratch. And as I dressed, I thought to myself that this could actually be possible. Perhaps I could do this.

Heading down the stairs, I had made it up in my mind that I was going to go out. Fresh air would do me good. Halfway down I passed a framed picture of the two of us and stopped. It was a happy one where we were smiling real genuine smiles. I couldn't help but do the same. That is until I heard a sound from below. It didn't sound like anything, just some brief noise that registered only for the second it was made. Curiosity and fear got the better of me as I crept down the steps. From the very last, my whole body froze.

He was there. Right there, sitting at the dining room table with his elbows on top of the placemat and his chin resting on his fists. He didn't move as my eyes locked with his. He'd been waiting for me, I realized. And like a slap to the face, I was back to that hollow ache; the thudding in my chest becoming less rhythmic as a crumbled heart forced itself to beat too fast. I was not drunk anymore, so why was he there?

He just stared; his eyes were gentle and patient as he waited for me to make the first move. I could hardly breathe as my feet drug along the hardwood floor and my legs carried me to the chair across the table from him. I stared at him, not even bothering to hide that I was staring at him . . . not understanding at all. "I've gone mad," I found myself whispering.

His mouth twisted into a grin and he shook his head lazily. "No, not yet," he said. His voice was clear, as if he was really flesh and bone sitting there across the table from me like he did every morning.

"I must be," I insisted, "because how else would you explain . . ." I could hardly speak. I was afraid a wayward breath would whisk him away like smoke. "Are . . . are you . . . a . . ."

"Oi don't bloody know what Oi am. But Oi'm here." He tilted his head closer and brought his voice lower, more intimate. "Oi am here. Last night you didn't want to believe it and, well . . . Oi wanna apologize for how Oi acted. It wasn't right." He paused. "Do you even remember last night? Oi've never seen you so wasted."

"Some," my voice deadpanned.

He sighed, lowering his hands to the table and lacing his fingers in front of him. "Love, Oi am sorry. Scaring you like that was the last thing Oi wanted to do. Oi really don't know what came over me . . ."

I wanted him to feel sorry for putting me through that. What he showed me was so ghastly it could pierce any hangover. I wanted him to be remorseful and penitent for torturing me so; but one look at the frown on his lips, the furrow of his brow, and the hurt in his eyes was enough to break my heart all over again. I reached for him, my hand grazing against cold nothing as my fingers landed on the table beneath his folded palms. The air and surface around them felt like ice, and my own fingers felt numb being near them. A shocked gasp hissed between my teeth. His hands pulled away slowly. "You can't touch me," he said, "not unless Oi want you to."

I felt bitter hurt flare at the pit of my soul to mix with my confusion. "You don't want me to touch you?" I asked, fighting it all back.

"Oi do. It's just . . ."

He closed his eyes, and as he extended his fingers almost hesitantly towards mine, I saw his brow crease again in concentration. His touch was solid this time. It was less cold – feeling like someone coming in from a snowy night – and no longer numbing at the point of contact. If I closed my eyes and thought hard, I could remember the sensation of heat coming from those long fingers as they held my hand. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "If Oi focus on how it used to feel, I can feel again. But it does take its toll." His voice wavered and I looked up, mortified to see his face paler and more translucent than before. He was fading. I dropped his hand like a hot iron and he became opaque again before it could hit the table.

He clenched his hand into a fist as he breathed in slowly and steadily, calming himself into a trance and gathering his strength. Soon he was back to normal – as normal as he could become. I sighed heavily and shook my head. "I can't touch you and I can't feel you either. Having you here . . ." I buried my face in my hands, ". . . I don't know if it truly 'elps or makes zis much worse."

He looked up at me. All love and care was in that look and I got every ounce of compassion I've ever felt and any he'd ever returned. I loved him and I would continue to after death, but having him sit at our dining room table with his hands folded in between us and wearing the same smile I had fallen in love with in the first place was making it very hard to mourn his loss.

There was a sudden knock at the door that echoed through the supernaturally quiet house. I started, snapping to attention. A voice called out. "Antoine? Are you in there?" The knocking continued.

I groaned into my hands as they pushed over my eyes, "Ugh I forgot that the team was coming over. What am I going to do about you?" I gestured sharply towards his spectral visage.

"Hey! Oi'm not completely defenseless here!" he laughed and I shushed him, ushering him away to hide. I couldn't have the rest of the team knowing he was . . . well, not alive but . . . I supposed we didn't know what he was. Regardless, it was not a conversation I wanted to have with our old friends and damn it I am a selfish bastard after all and I wanted him all to myself.

He drifted into the living room, grinning as he went while I straightened up. There were more knocks coming from the door. Each one was followed by low mumblings behind it. Taking a deep breath and casting a wary eye down the hall where I knew he was hiding, I turned the knob and opened the door.

Josef's smiling face was still as unsettling as it always had been, but slowly it seemed to be growing on me. The doctor used to only smile when dismemberment was involved, but he had adapted back to normal life quicker than any of us, and was truly enjoying domesticity. "Antoine, how are you, mein Kamerad? It has been too long!" he gushed as he took a step closer over the threshold to pull at my arm so I would have been forced into a hug had I refused. I went willingly though; Medic had been one of the few people I'd bonded with throughout the war. He was quirky and a bit demented, but an intellectual at my standards was hard to find. The Medic was a rare man, indeed. "I apologize. I know we are much too early for the festivities, but I vanted to make sure I could find vhere you live. I don't believe I haff ever been to your home before. Do show us around?" he asked, his smile reaching up to crinkle his cheeks and push at the bottom rim of his glasses.

I let out the chuckle rising in my throat and stepped out of the way to let them in. The Heavy nodded as he stepped through, tucking in his shoulders so that he did not bump anything along his path. In his arms he held a large dish that smelled heavenly, like honey dripping from the comb so enticing that the scent alone made my stomach rumble for a bite. The large man must have seen my face, because his smile was broad. "It is medovik, a cake of cream and honey. My mother used to make for me when I feel bad. It will help. I will put in kitchen." He nodded again and dismissed himself. My eyes followed him, silently begging to tear into the cake – I was teased all too often for my sweet tooth and that goliath knew my weakness – when my sight caught Josef moving through the house on his own. I showed him to the smaller rooms like the dining room and kitchen, immediately feeling a bit of shame when I'd noticed bits of glass from the night before that I had not cleaned up tucked beneath the small table. I ushered them away quickly and before I could catch him, Josef let out a surprised little gasp as he darted for the living room; the room Lawrence had been hiding in. I called out to him but he was already inside.

He jumped to the fireplace in the center of the room and was looking above the mantle. "Oh! Your old veapons, here on display in a place of honor! That does varm my heart to see you memorializing old times for all to see." He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the display above the hearth; when we bought the house, Lawrence had insisted on keeping his gun out so it was easily accessible in case of intruders, whereas I had pushed that my knives would be effective enough. We'd decided on a compromise: above the mantle sat his old rifle suspended on decorative hooks with each of our knives and blades positioned around in an artful manner that, to a stranger, would not be so terrifying to behold. We made it that way in hopes that neighbors would think of us simply as gun enthusiasts, not trained mercenaries. The memory of how many times I'd used those knives and how many people he'd shot with that gun still sent a chill down my spine. Not one of fear, but exhilaration. Josef snorted, "The others do not share our fond memories. I kept my very first medigun model! You remember, the one that exploded on its first day in battle? Vell, I pieced it back together and it is on display at our house too! Misha, tell him."

Misha nodded his big head and gave a playful scowl to the doctor. "Yes, sits above table. I worry it will explode while we eat."

Josef flipped his hand and clicked his tongue. "Oh hush. I do not complain vhen Sascha has to sleep in the bedroom, now do I?"

They bickered back and forth playfully while I was in a state of panic. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the shape of Lawrence's lanky body leaning against the bookcase. Slowly and with great care, I inched over that way so that I blocked their line of view to him should they look this way. I heard Lawrence's gravelly laugh behind me. "They can't see me, love. Or hear me."

I backed up and leaned against the bookcase next to him, my shoulder brushing against his had he any substance to him. "How do you know that?" I whispered without looking at him.

He was silent for a moment and when he spoke I knew it was because he was trying not to laugh. "I tried scarin' the shit outa the mailman this morning'. Didn't work." My eyes went wide and I turned to glare at him before he burst into laughter, my accusing glower not fazing him at all. "Wot?! You slept in and Oi was bored!"

Insufferable man, I thought as I shook my head and choked down a laugh. Misha looked over at the strangled sound and the lift of a smile on my face. He asked lightheartedly, "What is funny?"

My smile faded into a look of one touched in sorrow. It did hurt to think they could not see their friend. "Memories, my large friend. Nothing more."

Josef turned as well, his expression changing to a look of somber study, as if the doctor were assessing a patient. "And how are you, really?" he asked in a low reverent tone.

I sobered quickly. "I am fine," I assured.

Misha frowned next to his medic. "It is okay to not be fine. Sometimes, to be fine is hardest thing to do. Just know that sniper man will always be with you," he placed his large hand over his heart and smiled, "in here always. For as long as you remember him."

"The same goes for us as vell. Ve are coping too, so know that you are not alone in this," Josef urged.

My face fell as I felt a rush of shame wash over me. The ghost of my lover was standing right next to me and our closest friends could not see him, but I could. They were hurting just as much as I was. Their hearts broke at the news of his accident and their tears streaked their cheeks just like mine did. In this, I thought I was alone, but our friends had suffered too; but they did not have what I had. I had him. He was with me – not in my heart, but as a voice in the back of my mind, the shadow at my back. He was there for me and gone for them. Somehow, I felt guilt. I wanted to get rid of that guilt, but I could not bring myself to tell them that the dead man I had loved was standing next to me staring sadly at the side of my face.

I put on a small smile of gratitude and gestured that we move to the study that I had turned into a smoking room. We sat and talked about the good old days and all that had transpired in between then and now. Soon there were more knocks at the door as more and more of our old friends came round to say hello to each other and to say goodbye to one.

Only an hour later brought the rest of the band of miscreants I called friends for so long. Even the ones I had despised for quite a while – Scout included – were bringing me joy to see. They would clasp me on the shoulder with quieted words of consolation before moving past to join up with the others they hadn't seen since the end of our bloody war. Tavish and Jayne chatted eagerly about their lives now that home life had claimed us all while Josef and Misha stood at the other end of the room talking to the other couple among them. I watched from my chair in the living room as the warmth from the fireplace seeped into my skin and licked its embers at the cold parts of my soul. I could see Lawrence in the corner; always in the corner. I tried not to look, tried to pretend there was nothing there because it hurt to remember I was the only one who could see him.

I sighed and swished the drink in my glass in lazy circles, too distracted by the color of the fire dancing on the dark amber shades of whisky to see the Scout inching closer to my spot by the flames, his hands tucked into his pockets and shoulders slumped forward to accentuate the pout on his face. "Hey, uh . . . I . . . uh didn't see ya at the funeral," he stumbled to get the words out. Slowly my eyes rose away from the glass and focused on his face. He looked uncomfortable, like bereavement was something he had little experience in. In truth, so did I. I never let myself get close enough to another human to grieve their death – not until the war had started.

I sighed and placed my glass on the table beside my chair. "No," I said flatly. "I was not there long, I couldn't stay. I am sure you understand." I tried to stay nonchalant. I tried to keep my shield, my mask of indifference, up. I found it harder than ever before.

"Uh, yeah I guess I get it. Dat's some tough shit to deal with and . . . I want ya to know that I . . . uh – I mean, I know how hahd it was for me and my brothers when Ma died and . . ." he fumbled.

"I know. Thank you, Kit. I do appreciate your sympathy." That was the last of the comforting warm feelings I could take. I searched for another topic. Any topic. "How is Anna?"

Kit's face visibly lightened and a smile crept into those forever child-like cheeks. "Yeah, yeah Anna's great! The kids are swell too. Bette and Bobby are doin' good. Preschool's kickin' deir rear, heh, but Little Mikey is a piece a' work, I tell ya! Little tyke has Anna runnin' all ova the place chasin' afta him." He laughed, his broad smile spreading until his teeth were bared in a toothy grin. His enthusiasm when talking about his family was infectious, it seemed, because I smiled in return. His grin faded some and his eyes seemed to dim a little as he came closer. "Uh, ya know you should really give her a call sometime. She misses you somthin' bad. She'd neva admit it but . . . well I can tell."

I frowned then. When the Scout had first come to me with his desire to court my one and only daughter – one that at the time had been estranged and newly reconnected with – my first thought was how much blood a man can lose before he dies; the second was whether or not Scout could withstand the worst torture I could have thought up. Then he started to explain. Since he first laid eyes on her, he said, he was in love. He said she was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen in his life, and that he'd seen a lot of girls in his time. I had not thought Scout capable of such (somewhat) pure feelings of love and beauty. The poor lout had actually written poetry. It was terrible, but tolerable. Anna, to her credit, fought him off as much as she could, but eventually succumbed to his flirting and soon fell for him too. I had permitted the relationship, and was there the day the twins were born. Never had I been so proud as I was the very first day I became a grandfather and held each little squalling child in my arms. When Kit's mother got sick, I had permitted them to move closer to her in her final days. The newest child I had not met in person, but the internet would suffice. "I should come to see you two sometime," I said.

He beamed. "Oh man! We'd love that!"

Just then, the others had started to filter back into the living room. They laughed, their spirits high when they saw the soft smile on my face rather than the empty frown I had donned earlier in the evening. Josef was gesturing to the display above my head again. "See? Just as I said! Isn't it a marvelous tribute to all ve had accomplished?" he enthused. Dell and Jayne had agreed wholeheartedly, jabbering on about their own weapons.

Tavish gawked up at one of the pieces in the display. "Aye, is that the first he'd ever had?" he asked with awe.

He was pointing to a beautifully carved wooden kukri with sprawling curves and figures of the desert wildlife we had come to loathe and he'd become fascinated in. I shook my head. "Non. That one he made himself about three years in. He never used it in battle."

"Oh," he said, his fingers dancing over the intricate grooves reverently. "It's a bute! The boyo had skill, none cannae doubt."

"Nobody did," Dell spoke up with a fond smile on his thin lips. "Remember when he got bored in the winters 'cuz it was too cold to go outside and he'd carve our faces into our chairs?"

Everyone nodded cheerfully at the happy little memory, causing others to surface. "Oh, remember the tiny figurines he made each of us that one Smismas? Mine vas a tiny little human skull that I used as a paperweight on my desk. It vas anatomically correct too!"

"He gave me a mitt holdin' a baseball he'd scribbled Babe Ruth's name on like he'd signed it. It was the coolest thing!"

"A bald eagle in flight. The most noble creation from a non-American."

"Antoine," Tavish spoke softer than the rest, pulling my attention towards him. "Whot did he give ye that year? Ye naever showed us."

The room went silent and I felt the question linger heavily in the air around us. I drew in a breath. The reason I hadn't told anyone was because our relationship had only just begun. We weren't really anything to each other but a distraction. That is, until that one Smismas, when he surprised me more than he ever had in our time together. Slowly I released the breath I had been holding unknowingly and walked towards the study. Behind me, everyone stayed in the living room and waited, but I felt a presence with me every step. Behind the small desk, inside the top drawer on the right, was a small chunk of wood carved into the most beautiful piece of art I had ever seen. It was an immaculate carving set into a wooden disk – a fox's head turned up to admire the half crescent moon laid into the wood behind it and cradled among painted stars. It was stunning and incredibly not what I had expected at all. I had not expected anything really, but to receive a gift so exquisite caught me completely off guard. I had asked him what it meant, not just to give the gift but what that meant for us from then on out. He simply shrugged and said the most ridiculous thing, but it was beautiful to me. With you, I don't need stars or the moon. I can be that for you. And if that's not enough, I will be there for when you do. The stars never leave us.

His voice spoke softly beside me as I pulled out the carving and cradled it lovingly in my hands. "Oi didn't know you kept that."

"Always," I replied. It was at that moment when he gave this to me that I knew I had begun to fall in love with him without even knowing it, and suddenly I was too far gone to deny it to myself anymore. I loved him, and I still did. Always.

I brought it out for the others to see then. Each one gushed over the handiwork and asked for the meaning, but I said there was not one. That foxes reminded him of spies, that's all. I kept his precious words to myself. They were mine and mine alone.

While the team chittered on, I heard a faint whistle from behind me. I turned to see Lawrence leaned against the doorframe and push off towards the side hallway behind the stairs. His face came back into view as he beckoned for me to follow him. I inched away from the group, naturally no one noticing me leave because I've always been damn good at disappearing.

I turned the corner behind the staircase so that I was completely hidden from view of the living room when I saw him a bit further down, his arms crossed over his chest and a furrow on his brow. "What is it?" I asked cautiously, my voice low so I was not heard by the others. He had that look on his face, the one where we were going to have one of those conversations that left one of us angry.

He breathed in heavily, letting it sit in his chest for a moment before it hissed slowly through his nostrils. "Oi've been thinkin' that . . . that this ain't good for you." I was silent, not knowing what he meant. He spoke again, "Oi think you were right. Me bein' here . . . it ain't right. It's downright selfish of me to stay. To stay behind and let you suffer."

I gasped, any breath wishing to let go halted in my throat. "Suffer?" I asked in shock. "What on earth are you saying to me right now?"

"That's just it. On Earth, this was not supposed to happen." The words were a lump in his throat, but he pushed on. "Oi don't exist," he spoke softly, "Not really. Not anymore. Oi died, Oi wasn't supposed to come back."

I spat bitterly without meaning to, "You don't 'ave to remind me of that. Or do you not remember that I buried you!" It was an effort to keep my voice down, but I held as firm as I could. Then realization struck me like a slap to the face what he was trying to say. "Are . . . are you saying goodbye?"

There was a long pause, and I could see in his eyes he was conflicted on his answer. "I-. . ." he started, but couldn't finish.

I could hardly see past the red creeping in the edges of my vision as they were replaced with prickles of tears at the corners from rage and sudden sorrow. "How dare you? I wish I could slap you right now, because maybe it would knock some sense into you, you insufferable man! How could you come back and torment me so, then be so quick to leave me behind? Again!"

His hands flew out between us, his fingers ghosting over my neck and shoulders in an attempt to calm me. "Love! Love, easy please listen. This right here proves that Oi'm not helping you cope. You can't mourn me if Oi'm still here."

"Is that what you want? For me to mourn you? You think I want to lie awake every night wishing you were beside me? Or to move about my day not hearing your voice just out of earshot or seeing you in the corner of my eye? You are a comfort I did not know I needed so badly. I need you, Lawrence! I always have!" I shut my eyes as I felt the red fade away to full-blown weeping. He was leaving all over again. He couldn't do that to me a second time, he couldn't.

His voice was as soft as calm waters in the wake of a storm. "Don't you see, love? You need that. No, of course Oi don't want that pain for you, but you need a chance for a normal life again, and Oi can't give you that anymore."

"If you aren't in it, then I don't want normal. I want you. I want you here with me. Is that so much to ask?"

I felt him. I felt his long fingers trail up the underside of my chin and tilt my face up to his. "Yes," he said so delicately, as if a prayer only to me, and pressed his lips to mine. I could feel him, just as it had always felt, but this time I tasted the salt of my tears on my tongue. I knew what this was even as it was happening. This was on final goodbye. As much as I squirmed and pushed to be released from him and this horrible wonderful expression, he held firm. He pressed into me and I could feel his arms wrapped around me and his chest heaving against mine as his soft words were whispered into my mouth. "I love you, I do. I will always love you. Always."

I gave in with a sob and returned everything. "Je t'aime, ma chère. Je t'aime." I cried as he held me. As he said goodbye. One last time.

The very last thing I felt as he pulled away and smiled down at me was his thumb brushing against my cheek, wiping away the tears I'd shed for him, before he faded away forever. My love, my life, my everything was gone for the last time. I stared blankly at the empty space in front of me for what felt like hours as my heart that had been trying to pull itself back together shattered all over again. And I broke anew. If before I thought it was unbearable, I was so very mistaken. Light turned grey and color bled away from everything. The warmth and happiness I'd ever thought I could hold again slipped away faster than I could comprehend and I was left with nothing in this world. Gone. He was gone.

A sob wretched through me and I crumbled against the wall. He was my everything, and if there was no everything, then what was left? My eyes burned and my breath came in shallow gasps as I forgot about keeping myself quiet any longer. Let the world hear my suffering.

Just then, Josef had come around the corner and, once he caught sight of me, rushed to me at once. His hands grasped my shoulders and turned me to him, and I went willingly into his comforting embrace. There was no shame and there was no anger or fear, only the grief of my loss. Josef's voice was faint, far away though he spoke next to my ear. "I knew this vould hit you eventually, my friend. Come, let me help."

He took me into the kitchen and sat me down at the accursed table that had started all of this. We talked for hours on end and I told him everything. All about the visit and how he'd left. I told him of how the world had died around me once again and, though I was sure he'd thought me insane – hell, I believed myself to be – he stayed and listened to it all. He comforted me and pulled me up from the pit I'd begun to bury myself in. I soon realized that, although it hurt more than words could describe to be alive and here while my Lawrence was not, life is indeed brighter knowing that he had once been in it. As if some of that light he brought into this world with him had stayed behind to comfort and assure me. Perhaps Misha was right; perhaps I would still feel him, around me and inside my heart that would long from now mend itself. Now may look bleak, but tomorrow may find his light again.

And for the first time since I heard of his passing, I did not feel sorrow for his death, but bliss that he had lived and had gone on to love me.