"Where's the boss?" Allen grunts.
"He's in his quarters," the soldier responds, jerking a thumb over to the cabin tucked in the corner of their camp. "He went in about an hour ago. He didn't say why."
The atmosphere of the cabin is heavy, almost oppressive, and Allen can feel it weigh on his shoulders the moment he steps inside. Morden is seated by the window with his back to the door, and on the table next to him is a glass of ice and a bottle of whiskey. If he hears Allen enter, he doesn't show it.
Allen has seen this time and time again, but it always scares him when it happens. Still, he walks forward, pulls out another chair and another glass, and sits next to Morden by the window.
He pours himself some of the whiskey, and the general doesn't notice. He doesn't notice much of anything in these moments, when he's far away inside his own head. Even when Allen looks him in the eye or puts a hand on his shoulder, Morden isn't really there-he's about ten years in the past, somewhere in Central Park with his son.
"Everything all right?" Allen ventures.
Morden nods, still looking out the window. They're both silent for a long, long moment, and then the general reaches his hand slowly across the table, his palm upwards.
Allen takes his hand, and Morden squeezes him tight in his fist.
"General, sir," Allen says one day, and Morden turns. "Permission to speak freely, sir."
"Granted," Morden says. Allen always has permission to speak freely, and most of the time, he doesn't even ask. When he does, it's clear that something's on his mind. "Something wrong?"
They're sitting together in a tent, having set up camp for the night as the Rebel Army migrates once again, and Allen is sitting cross-legged with his hands on his knees. He closes his eyes for a moment and sucks in a breath through his nose.
"I want to ask a favor, sir."
"Go ahead."
"If you want to have a drink," he says carefully, "have it with me."
Morden stares at him, blankly at first, and then he understands.
"I just mean," Allen continues, haltingly, "that I'd like to join you. Sometimes it's easier to talk, when someone's with you."
I just mean that it scares the shit out of me whenever you drink alone, is what Allen is really saying. I'll stay with you. Just tell me when. I'll be there.
Morden looks away as the guilt starts to knot in his throat. "All right," he says quietly. "I'll tell you."
Allen shifts uncomfortably on the floor of the tent. Maybe he wants to say something else, maybe he can't. But eventually, all he says is "Thank you."
Morden is one of the most extraordinary men Allen's ever known. He's intelligent and brave and all those other things a soldier ought to be, but he has a magnetism and charisma that makes him the keystone of the Rebel Army. He pushes his men hard, but he loves them, too, and every soldier under his command thinks of him as a father.
But every cliff has its drop, and Morden has memories that are so dark and deep that they sometimes pull him under, like a riptide into the ocean. Sometimes it hurts to love a man like that. Sometimes it hurts to only be able to watch.
But sometimes, Allen can touch him on the shoulder or call out to him from the door, and Morden will turn and grin, back in the present once again. And those moments make Allen happier than anything else.
"Hey," Morden says sharply, and Allen stands ramrod-straight and turns on his heel. The general chuckles, his strict expression softening into a grin. "Relax, Allen. I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate what you did yesterday."
Allen huffs out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir."
"How are the boys?" Morden asks, nodding to the motley bunch of soldiers that are currently falling all over themselves in the center of camp.
"Pathetic," Allen says. "They can't do a set of pushups to save their lives. I've been drilling 'em all morning."
"Same as it ever was," the general says, clicking his tongue. "Well, sergeant…do you feel like taking a break?"
Allen grins from ear to ear and turns towards the soldiers. "Take five, pipsqueaks!" he bellows. "When I come back I'd better see those backs straight and those palms on the ground!"
Morden laughs and crosses one leg over the other. "Attaboy," he chuckles. "Get me something sharp, would you, Allen? I'm in the mood to scheme."
They sit together, watching the soldiers and laughing. Morden tells Allen about his plans for the next campaign, and their hands squeeze together once again.