South Pacific

Though he knew it was useless to tally the days, Ben couldn't help himself. It was his nature to quantify, and in this fair-weathered, seasonless place, it was one of the only ways to mark the time.

6 months since he received her photos.

2 days since he had last looked at them.

5 months since her last letter had arrived.

13 months since they'd parted ways at the dock in San Francisco.

3 hours since the last time he wondered if his mother would ever speak to him again.

Ben sighed at this last thought and flattened Rey's last substantial letter against his book, skimming the lines he had all but memorized by now.

October 1943, SF Cali.

My love,

I miss your company more than words can say. Even as I am surrounded by so many people each day, I feel lonelier than ever, knowing you are so far away and in harm's way. It is curious that city life can be so isolating, isn't it? Sometimes, I see men that I mistake for my father and start after them, but it always turns out to be a stranger. I really should give up on the childish notion that he'll come back to our family.

Ben gazed at a fixed point over the top of his book at the springs on the underside of the top bunk. Her naked sentiment, rendered in such simple language, cut him to the quick each time he read it.

But enough about that sad story! We are riding the wave of a revolution here, all of us "Rosies" and "Wendys" in the shipyards. Our foremen are optimistic that the war will end this year, and took a voluntary resignation from women who wanted to return home. As for me, I can't imagine being at home full time - it would make me crazy, and besides, my family has always been poor and had to work.

My housemates are a source of much amusement. The landlady of our house, Maz, is quite the grand dame. She's rather tall, with large glasses and wears lots of jewelry. I suppose you would call her eccentric, but she is fair and caring to us, and runs a tidy house. My room is quite small, but it has what I need, and we are all asked to do with less so that our country may succeed on both fronts.

We began a Victory garden in the yard behind the house this fall, planting vegetables that might grow in this cool, damp climate - peas, onions, carrots. It remains to be seen how fruitful it will be, but it's right to pitch in as much as we all can.

I have a surprise in store for you for Christmas, and I think you'll enjoy it very much.

His heart had stuttered the first time he'd read this sentence, fearing different news than the one that had arrived in her Christmas letter. It still quirked his lips to think of the surprise that had greeted him instead. He kept her photos to himself in a selfish only-child maneuver, tucked in the pages of a philosophy book that no one wanted to look at. His fellow soldiers marveled his capacity to pour over the text, and he merely grinned like the Cheshire Cat over the top of the book at them. Let the others share; she was his, and the mere thought of one of them touching himself over her was enough to sink him into a black mood.

The smile fell from his lips when he thought of his mother once more. They had never been apart for the holidays before.

It is late, my love, and I'm afraid I must turn in. The trip to the shipyards begins early tomorrow. I long for your arms around me as the moon makes its trip across our sky once more.

All my love,

R.

Ben folded her letter back into neat folds and replaced it in its envelope. By his calculations based on the postmark dates, it took up to four weeks for mail to arrive from California. This October letter had arrived just before Thanksgiving, and he imagined her dropping her gift to him into a post box shortly after the holiday. His gaze wandered once more, wondering what they would've eaten if they had been together. Then too, as he did more and more as of late, he wondered why she did not think to write more often. He managed to post a letter about once a week, but hers were very few and far between. Others received packages and letters with greater regularity, and while he didn't want to measure her by the standards of others, it nagged at him.

He mentioned it to Poe once, noticing that the other man also did not receive many communications from the homefront. Poe had regarded him coolly when he made the observation.

"Everybody's different," Poe waved it away with a flick of his hand. "Do you ever stop wonder if all those letters you write are getting to her? The west coast is practically a war zone with all the factories."

Poe's insight had set him back on his heels for a bit. His fellow pilot never offered any details about his own relationship, and Ben knew better by now than to pry. It was certainly true that San Francisco was a major area for troop deployments, munitions, and equipment-building. It stood to reason that the government might consider it in need of higher security than other places.

But surely, letters from their own troops would not be under suspicion…? He felt naive considering it, that the thought of spies among them hadn't occurred to him before now.

Acknowledging that feeling drew his thoughts back to his mother. She had hurled the word at him as an insult before he'd left, and the idea that she had been right made him feel small. He curled onto his side facing the wall and closed his eyes against the scratchy feeling rising in them.


March 1943

Indiana

The final weeks leading up to his date of report passed in an uneven rhythm. The hours spent briefing his colleague who was taking over his sections at the university glided by, while the evenings at home crawled. He spent as many of them as he could helping Luke in the barn, or walking with his father.

It was Thursday before the Monday he was due to leave, and he was expected at the local graduate watering hole for a round of farewell drinks. The light was fading rapidly outside as he switched off the light in his study carrel at the main library and gave the key to the young man at the front desk.

He was just about to put the key in the lock of his dad's old truck when her voice stopped him.

"Any room for one more?"

He hadn't heard Lyn come up behind him. She had barely spoken to him since he'd told her his decision about enlisting. He turned slowly back to see her shiver in the damp March air, her legs exposed beneath her skirt. She ventured a small smile.

"I didn't expect you'd want to come tonight." He didn't answer her question. "Don't feel like you have to."

She looked crestfallen, just for a second, at his rebuff. She tipped her chin at him and he could see her determination.

"Ben, please- let's not argue," Evelyn stepped a stride closer. "You can drop me at home on the way, if that's better."

He sighed and looked at the ice forming in the edge of a puddle in the lot between them. Was he wrong not to want her there? Why did it even bother him? They'd spent the bulk of the year before arguing over the US's involvement in the conflict. He knew where she stood, and vice versa. Nothing she could say at this point would change his mind.

"Hop in, we can decide on the way."

The narrow, tree-lined streets with small bungalows near campus gave way to broader ones with large, stately homes. Their house was near the end of a block, and Ben cut the engine as he guided the truck into their driveway.

The silence without the noise of the motor stretched between them. Neither of them had spoken on the short drive. Ben peered up at the house.

"Pretty dark tonight."

Evelyn nodded, not looking at him. "My parents are at a fundraiser."

Now it was his turn to nod. Her father was in his element, no doubt. The chancellor loved to hold court at these things.

"Can I…" Ben trailed off. He gestured lamely towards the door.

"Please," she acquiesced as though relieved by his making the decision for her. "That would be nice."

He rounded the truck and opened her door, and they walked side-by-side to the front door. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, and she clutched her stack of books to her chest. He waited politely as she opened the door and placed her things on the chair beside the hallway mirror.

He looked around at the sitting room once more. Everything was as he remembered it: the rug they had played on as children, the arm chair she had pushed him off backwards that gave him the scar on his cheek, the porcelain figurines her mother collected when her family spent the summer in Switzerland. The grandfather clock chimed once on the half-hour. They were expecting him any minute at the bar. He had refused several offers of rides, wanting to be alone on the way. Her mother had left the radio playing in the kitchen and a lone trumpet bleated plaintively over the rest of the orchestra.

"Well." Her tone was soft. Her auburn hair read very dark with the lights off in the room.

"Well."

She closed the gap between them and pressed her slender body to his, weaving her arms under his and around his back, under his winter jacket. It startled him, feeling her warmth after all these months, and he reluctantly returned the gesture with a hand between her shoulder blades.

"I feel like this is my fault." Her voice was muffled against his sweater. "That you're going."

He looked down at the top of her head, and bowed his until his lips brushed the part in her hair. "It's not." He turned his cheek to her silky hair. "You know that."

He lifted his head when she moved to look up at him, her chin braced against his sternum. "It's not," he repeated, looking into her eyes. He could see the tears beginning to glitter in the edges, and he cupped her face in his broad hands. Her cheeks were chilled from being outside, but her breath was warm on his thumb as he brushed it over her lip.

Ben knew better. Really, he did. The metronome of the grandfather clock ticked off the seconds as he bent to her. The floor board creaked beneath them as they shifted, kneading and pulling and stumbling towards the couch in a familiar dance. He knew better, but he was tired- tired of resisting, of avoiding her eyes, of the sense of them that lingered despite their differences. He let her press him back against the cushions and closed his eyes as she climbed astride his lap. Her shoe hit the floor with a soft thud. It was too easy returning to each other, and he was too weak to formulate a reason why not to.

"Lyn," he murmured around her kisses. "We should use a-"

"Shhhh," she hushed him. "It's fine, it's the wrong time of month, it's fine."

Who was he to argue? The ragged sound of her breath went straight to his groin as she undid his trousers and he hiked up her sensible winter wool skirt. It paused him for a moment to wonder why she was not wearing stockings for warmth, but he forgot his concern and delighted in her shudder as his cold fingers skated up her inner thighs.

The radio continued to play and Bessie Smith's voice issued from the tinny speaker.

After you've gone

And left me crying

After you've gone

There's no denying

You'll feel blue, you'll feel sad...

He didn't wonder how she'd feel after he was gone.

There'll come a time

Now don't forget it

There'll come time

When you'll regret it

Someday…

He didn't think of anything except how good it felt not to think and to just succumb to the familiar.


The clock in his parents' house was striking half past eleven when he crept through the door, waving to his friend who had dropped him off. He sagged back against it, hissing at Artoo to silence his excited whining before he woke the entire household. The short, chubby dog wagged so hard his entire hindquarters shook, but he remained quiet as Ben unlaced his shoes and placed them near the door.

Turnout had been good at his going-away and his head swam with the number of whiskies he'd accepted. He couldn't wait to feel the cool sheets against his fevered skin and for the room to stop tilting around him. He swayed as he stood, bracing his hand against the wall to steady himself. Yes, he needed his bed. The morning would be painful, no doubt about it.

Artoo's nails clicked on the wood of the stairs ahead of him as he concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.

He was five stairs up when he heard Leia's footsteps in the hallway.

"Ben."

He stopped with one foot in mid-air and pivoted clumsily on his other. He wasn't drunk enough not to catch his mother's raised eyebrow. Her hair was down in its long night braid, and she wore one of his father's old house coats over her nightgown. The effect was rather that of a feudal samurai like the woodblocks in one of her art books.

"General," he greeted her with an impertinent fake salute and sank down onto the stair.

Leia's lips formed a thin line and her tone was strained as she replied. "May I speak to you?"

His head throbbed as he thought about having any kind of discussion with her right now. "Well, you're speaking to me right now," he slurred a bit.

Her face went blank and she drew herself up to her full height with her arms crossed. "You are never more like him than when you're drunk," she muttered before turning on her heel. "Come in my office - I don't want to wake your father."

Ben covered his face with his hands. He didn't want to do this tonight, but the thought of doing it in the morning made his stomach churn. He steadied himself with a hand on each of the railings and lurched back into a standing position.

Leia's office was dark save for the desk lamp. Like his own attic workspace, hers was crowded with papers and piles of books with all manners of markers sticking out - scraps of paper, lengths of ribbon, the occasional pencil propped through the corner to keep her page. One entire wall was a bookshelf and Ben would've been hard pressed to find an empty space to slot in one more volume.

As a child he had loved her office more than anything. As an adult it made him feel claustrophobic.

He sank into the armchair in front of her. The alcohol had seized his brain enough that he had trouble focusing on a point. His eyes had a mind of their own and kept tracking slightly to the left without his participation.

"Well, your highness?" He drew the word out, dripping with sarcasm. She was right. Drinking did bring out his father in him.

"It looks like you had yourself a fine time this evening," Leia kept her arms crossed in front of her and ignored his slight.

"Yeah, well, I'm not going to tell people 'no' if they want to buy me a drink before I go defend our country."

Leia steepled her fingers against her forehead and sighed noisily. "You cannot possibly be so naive as to believe that!"

She had said many things to try to reason him out of going in the months following his enlistment, but this was a new take. "Naive?! How is it any different than you and Uncle Luke volunteering in the Great War? And Dad?!"

"That was a different time, and we were kids," Leia said with the unassailable conviction of age. It drove him nuts when she took this tone with him. "You aren't a child. You have a future ahead of you here-"

"What future?" He erupted at her remark and the alcohol dulled his sense of how loud he was being. He didn't care. "There might not be anything to come back to, if we don't fight now! What, are you gonna wait and throw a textbook at the Germans when they hoist the swastika over the university? Are you gonna stab them in the leg with a pencil when they pile up all your precious publications in the library and bend you over a table while they torch it-"

"Ben!"

His father's roar echoed down the stairway and cut him short.

The door to the office banged open a second later and Han appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the hallway light behind him.

"Don't you raise your voice to your mother!" His father pointed a finger at him. "You may be off to the front next week but tonight you're still under my roof!" Han jerked his thumb back at himself. "What the hell is going on down here?"

Ben shot out of the armchair and stumbled over a loose book at his feet. "Oh, now you're concerned what's going on in here? Isn't it a little late for that, Dad?"

Han looked astonished at his outburst, then a familiar scowl knit his brow and even in his state Ben knew he had crossed a line. His father hid his true emotions deep under a protective shield of humor and sarcasm, but they bubbled to the surface in short, terrifying transmissions.

"You're drunk. Go to bed before you say something you can't take back," Han's tone was low and clipped, his breathing punctuating his sentences. "So that in the morning, I can see the face of my son."

His breathing was labored as he brushed past his father without a backwards glance at Leia. It was so unfair the way they only acted as a unit when it was time to gang up on him. He took pains to stomp as heavily as possible up the stairs to the attic and slam the door so that the window rattled in the skylight. Ben threw himself on the narrow twin bed without removing his clothes and turned on his side to face the wall. His eyes were scratchy but he refused to give them the satisfaction of letting tears fall from them.

The whiskey in his nervous system made the world lurch and his stomach roil like it had once on a roller coaster by the ocean. It alternated between a plane of sticky, woozy desire to sleep and moments of being sure he needed to struggle over to his desk trash can to be sick. Every time he closed his eyes a wave of nausea threatened his middle and he opened his eyes once more to stave off the sensation, swallowing hard against the spit collecting in his mouth.

While he had always been scornful of fiction that depicted the protagonist's thoughts as swimming before his eyes, he could think of no better metaphor as a carousel of snippets of conversation and images from the day whirled in his mind. No sooner did he acknowledge them than his brain would supply another.

It was unpleasant but exhausting and he was nearly asleep when he heard something at the door.

"Go away!" The sound of his own voice echoed weakly under the roof.

There was a shuffle outside the door, then a thump.

He rolled onto his back and gathered his strength to stagger off the bed. The doorknob felt icy in his fevered hand. "I said, Go aw-"

He stopped short as he yanked open the door. There was no one there.

Artoo's snort brought his gaze down. Ben stared at the beast where he lay on his back with his front paws curled over his chest. His thick, stubby tail thumped against the wood floor in a happy, staccato beat and his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth to see Ben standing over him.

He groaned at the pain in his midsection when he leaned over and gathered the arthritic dog to his chest.

Artoo's warm, wriggly weight was the rock that anchored him to the bed and finally pushed his head under the wave of sleep.