Arthur could have stayed folded in his arms for hours, his nose buried into his shoulder, breathing the blood and sweat and tasting the life on his skin, but he was forced to recall that they were in a public infirmary, where nurses flitted to and fro every other minute with bright, curious eyes, and eventually withdrew, letting his hands fall finally from Alfred's shoulders, his fingertips lingering on the bandages that traced pathways over his skin and wound down the smooth slope of his back and around his abdomen almost like plotlines of some faraway tale of war. Arthur blinked with the sad realization that at some point he would have to get Alfred to tell him every story that was etched across his body, written in blood and scars and burns. He would have to know.

However, such things were best saved for another time. He touched Alfred's cheek with his knuckle and straightened with a sigh, though he was unable to keep himself from smiling when Alfred leaned forwards as if to snatch his hand from the air before frowning and falling back onto the pillows with the faintest frown creasing his brow.

"Go to sleep, love," murmured Arthur. "That's what you need most."

Alfred, despite having already shut his eyes, quirked an eyebrow and mumbled that he personally begged to differ. Arthur flushed and shushed him again before he turned to go to the medicine cabinet, something strangely buoyant rising in his throat. He swallowed, worriedly pressing his fingertips gingerly to his jugular, before he realized that he was simply relieved, happy. He exhaled softly. It felt curious after so long.

He was fiddling with a vial of antibiotics when a hand closed on his shoulder and he turned to experience the second shock of the last hour.

Francis merely laughed and shook his head when he choked and nearly spilled the medicine all across the counter; swearing, Arthur scarcely rescued the vial from shattering in his fist and hastily found support by leaning heavily against the edge of the counter, taking a moment to recover his breath. Francis was still smirking, and the expression struck a strange juxtaposition with the thin scar that ran halfway down his cheek and jarred his lips, with the way he clutched his arm clumsily to his stomach beneath his hospital gown. It was then that Arthur realized he was indeed wearing a hospital gown, that his yellow hair hung matted about his face and shoulders, that there were new lines of fear and exhaustion cutting downwards from the corners of his mouth and the edges of his eyes.

"Bloody hell," he gasped. "What happened to you?"

Francis chuckled, and despite their tiredness his eyes danced.

"Quite thrilled to see you, too, mon cher," he crooned, reaching out to touch Arthur's cheek affectionately. "You seem to be as feisty as ever."

But Arthur was too occupied with inspecting his injuries to protest the gibe, slowly pacing a circle around him as he examined his broken arm, the scars that traced patterns across his face and neck, the suggestions of bruising at his wrists. He could smell the faint murmur gunpowder beneath the strong reek of antiseptic, and of generic painkiller.

"Elizaveta got her hands on you, did she not?" he asked eventually, once he had circled back to face his old friend. Francis chuckled again, nodding, and Arthur sighed.

"There's no helping that one," he muttered, though he smiled slightly despite himself before he glanced up at Francis more sternly. "Either way, you still haven't answered my question."

Francis merely shrugged. "I am in a war, dear doctor, lest we should forget."

Arthur rolled his eyes but turned back to arranging his medicines, somewhat pacified.

"And I suppose you accompanied Alfred here?" he asked without turning around, knowing that Francis was still hovering nearby, probably fiddling with the collar of his hospital gown or twirling a strand of filthy hair about his index finger.

"Indeed," replied Francis after a moment, joining Arthur at the counter and resting his cheek on his palm. "I wanted to make sure he arrived safely. We ran into…" He paused, brow knitting. "Well, the passage was not entirely uneventful, if you follow me, especially for the poor boy. However, the nurses seemed quite concerned with my condition, curiously enough."

Arthur glanced up briefly. "Silly things, the whole lot," he scoffed, returning to the antibiotics. "You're just fine."

Francis shrugged, turning to rest his elbows on the counter and crossing one elbow over the other.

"The arm is rather shattered," he said eventually.

"Don't be a pussy," returned Arthur.

Francis tipped his head back with a soft chuckle; his hair nearly brushed the surface of the counter. Arthur sniffed. How unsanitary. They were quiet for a good while, during which Arthur pretended to be quite occupied. Eventually, however, his hands eased to a standstill and he ducked his head, shoulders swelling with a sigh.

"Thank you," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Francis. I…" He bit down on his lower lip. "I rather owe you my life, I suppose."

Francis was silent, and when Arthur looked up, his mouth was hanging slightly ajar in abject surprise. He raised a brow questioningly and Francis swallowed visibly.

"Why, Arthur Kirkland," he said after a moment, pressing his palm dramatically to the center of his chest, eyes dancing. "Forgive me; I had little idea that you considered the boy to be of equivalent value to your life."

Arthur gaped for a moment, then felt heat rush up from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears. He struggled to compose himself, coughing faintly into the ball of his fist.

"I do say, that isn't what I meant," he managed eventually, though his voice sounded rather strange to his own ears. "What I meant was…well, what I meant was…" He trailed off feebly. "Thank you, anyways."

Francis smiled crookedly and thumped Arthur on the back, striking with considerable impact given his condition. Arthur grumbled and shook him away as he tried to recover some scrap of dignity, wistfully recalling that dear old reputation, left behind long ago in the hysteria of grief and shock and relief that had characterized the past few months. Another moment of silence stretched between them, and when Arthur looked up again, he saw Francis gazing soberly at Alfred where he lay asleep in the cot, golden hair spread around him over the pillow.

"Something the matter?" Arthur asked eventually, a jolt of alarm starting through his heart when Francis glanced back at him and he recognized distress and indecision in his eyes. His voice sharpened and he set down the syringe he had been fixing. "Tell me, Francis."

Francis inhaled heavily and shut his eyes.

"There's something…" he began, words jolting as he exhaled. "Arthur, there's something…I don't know what, but there's something the matter with Alfred, and I…I haven't been able to fix it. He won't get better." Francis turned to Arthur almost imploringly, terrifyingly. "Please, I hope you can forgive me."

Arthur felt unsteady. "What is it?"

Francis turned away. "His eyes," he said softly. "Something happened in the crash; perhaps he struck his head, perhaps some shrapnel got in too deeply to be detected, perhaps it's nothing more than psychological…I daren't say that I know, but I can tell you that his ability to see…well, he's obviously not blind, but…" He paused. "Something will never be the same again. Colors, lines, words, they're blurry to him. I fear he'll never recover, and I'm…I'm sorry, Arthur. He won't fly again. I haven't yet told him, but I think he knows nonetheless."

Arthur was quiet for a long time, then he was smiling, and a small peal of laughter fought its way from his throat. Francis stared at him, startled.

"Oh, thank God," gasped Arthur finally. "You bastard, you made me think the boy was terminally ill." He clapped Francis on the shoulder rather harder than was necessary, a minor but nonetheless satisfactory revenge. "I don't very well give a damn how he sees, and well…" He paused, smiling almost tentatively. "Honestly, I can't help but be glad he won't fly again. He'll be crushed, but only for a while, and…oh, I don't know. Maybe…" He glanced down at his feet. "Maybe he can…perhaps…ah, stick around here, at least until this whole mess has run its course, you know." Arthur cleared his throat. "Only so that I can make sure he hasn't suffered any psychological or hidden damage, naturally."

Francis, to his credit, did not laugh or tease, simply nodded, and only smiled when Arthur returned to Alfred's bedside and touched his cheek, when Alfred pressed his face into the curve of his palm in his sleep, the crease between his brows lightening and the come and go of his breathing steepening. Francis had, after all, known the complex and reserved language of the English people for many years, and understood full well what Arthur truly meant.

The next few days soon revealed that Alfred had no plans to reveal himself. He slept, he read a novel every once in a while, he fidgeted, he entertained long conversations with Matthew and Elizaveta, he grew somewhat nervous every time he spotted Francis chatting with Arthur from his neighboring hospital bed, and he smiled whenever Arthur drew near, beckoned him over, took his hand, sighed contentedly and shut his eyes.

Arthur was desperately curious to know what had happened, not from fragments of stories handed down through Francis but through Alfred himself, through his bumbling but sincere mouth and heartrendingly expressive eyes and that apologetic way he fiddled with his glasses whenever a difficult subject arose. He wanted Alfred to look up at him and tell him outright that the dark green sweater he wore beneath his medical coat was the same color as the grass outside and the sickly peeling paint on the walls and the worried glint in his eyes, he wanted Alfred to take his hand and confess to the fear that lingered in his expression when he thought Arthur wasn't looking, he wanted to wrap Alfred in his arms and promise him that none of it, not a single bit, made any difference as far as they were concerned, because it didn't, it truly didn't.

What did make a difference was that whenever the journey back to England surfaced in their conversation, Alfred grew unnecessarily cheerful and his voice rose to an almost shrill decibel and he smiled and teased too loudly, and Arthur surrendered every time, because he hated to see him so palpably uncomfortable. Even so, he couldn't help but begin to feel hurt as the weeks began to trail by and Alfred still told him absolutely nothing, though he was often caught staring into the far wall or sighing into the pages of a book, eyes dim and faraway, perhaps trying to recover the old colors and dimensions they had lost.

Francis had outlined the story sufficiently so that Arthur could understand what had actually happened. The resistance fighters had left the base and traveled uninterrupted for days before they encountered a small group of Germans camped out somewhere near the outskirts of Paris. They greatly outnumbered the enemy, and the fight had been brief but taxing. Francis shattered his arm against a rock when he was diving for cover from the gunfire. Alfred himself was shot in the thigh. Eleven men fell in total, but they made it to the new base and immediately sent for transport to England, to Arthur. They arrived some weeks later, and that was that.

Those were indeed the facts, but Arthur was very well read and knew that every story was richer, that there were threads of emotion and characterization and pain and longing that Francis could not spin for him, but that he needed to hear nevertheless. Alfred knew the plot by heart, it was etched into his skin and his mind and his eyes most of all, and one day, Arthur began to agonize, one day he would be able to narrate it.

Three weeks blurred together and Arthur began to grow impatient. It was not only that Alfred was avoiding serious conversation; it was that he and Alfred were forced to avoid one another daily, in every sense of the idea. The infirmary was never empty and seldom quiet. Arthur was busy and Alfred was exhausted, sleeping away the majority of the day, only waking to eat or read or play with Arthur's fingers like a bored child. Their last kiss had been on the day of Alfred's arrival, and it was an outright crime, Arthur considered as he hunched over his clipboard or arranged the medicines or mixed himself a drink, that the boy should be so near and yet so untouchable.

Regardless of his more base considerations, when a month had come and gone and Alfred remained quiet, full of nothing but airy sighs and faraway expressions, Arthur resolved that not another day would pass without a confession. The standard monthly examination was a suitable excuse to corner him and gain some information, he decided, no longer caring for delicacy; he was raw with worry and exasperation, and he only wanted the story, wanted an Alfred free of false smiles that only made him seem more heartrendingly vulnerable, even if that meant he would frown from time to time.

Alfred settled onto the examination room table, setting the thin sheet of wax paper to whispering beneath his weight, and Arthur was inadvertently reminded of the first time he had boxed the boy into this room, in fact for a very similar purpose. How ironic it was that they communicated more easily through radio, he thought drolly as he shut and discreetly locked the door of the examination room behind them. He went to the sink, washed his hands, and snapped on a pair of latex gloves while Alfred shifted almost rhythmically to and fro atop the table, accommodating himself. When Arthur turned, he was met with a devastatingly soft smile. He swallowed, and went to examine the pale pink lump of scar tissue at Alfred's thigh as if honestly concentrating on the wound.

"It's looking well," he said softly, wondering if Alfred could feel his breath against his skin. "You recover quickly, my boy." He paused, and glanced up at Alfred for a fleeting moment before ducking his head again. "Or your body does, that is."

He heard Alfred inhale sharply, hang suspended for a moment with bated breath, and finally give a carefully measured sigh. Silence stretched between them, and when Arthur looked up again Alfred was biting his lip, his brow furrowed, casting a shadow over his eyes. Arthur had to press down the urge to shake him violently until his glasses jarred and his wounds broke open again and he frowned, finally frowned, frowned and quit pretending.

"Alfred," he said quietly, dropping his hands from the bandages and reaching up to cup his neck. "Alfred, you're not yourself."

Alfred sucked on his lower lip, his heartbeat picking up palpably beneath Arthur's thumb. "I'm fine," he said after a moment. "Really, I'm fine. You're a great doctor, Arthur." He looked up at him with that same soft smile and Arthur wanted to slap him and hold him in the same instant. "I trust you."

Arthur stared at him with his mouth hanging slightly ajar. "Then tell me," he managed finally. "I want to know what happened." He shook his head. "I deserve to know what happened."

Alfred blinked, seeming confused. "Francis already told you how we got here," he said. "What else is there to know?"

Arthur sighed. His palms were still pressed to Alfred's neck, warm with the thrum of his pulse.

"No story is complete without characterization, Alfred," he mumbled after a long time. "I want to know…I want to know what you felt, how it was for you. I want to know what hurt, and why. I understand that it's been a long time since we were together like…like…well." He chuckled softly. "Like whatever we were, but you should remember that I…" His sense of reason caught up with his tongue and he jolted to a halt. "That I…that I care very much for you."

Alfred nodded, ducking his chin. "I know you do," he whispered. "But I feel like I can't…" He looked up and lifted his hand to touch a lock of Arthur's hair, his fingers lingering against his forehead as if memorizing the lines of worry etched into his skin. "I feel like I can't touch you, like everybody is watching us, and I don't like it."

Arthur felt his breath snag in his throat. "Neither do I," he managed. Alfred dropped his hand.

"I hate it," he said.

"You've been shutting yourself away, Alfred," murmured Arthur before he could stop himself. "I beg of you not to do that. It's not like you. I hate that."

Alfred was quiet for what seemed an eternity, then his shoulders seized beneath Arthur, then he seemed to crumble forwards and his arms folded hard around him. He buried his face into his shoulder with a groan, the sound tearing from his throat unbroken by tears but strained with pain and a strange note of relief. Arthur dropped his hands from around his neck to hold him, though he was unused to such tender gestures.

"They don't know what's happened to them," Alfred said after a long time of nothing but clutching Arthur tightly to his chest. "Everything is blurry, like a watercolor. A mess of smudgy lines and colors that I can't quite pick out, and they don't know how to fix it. Nobody does, not even you." His voice broke and he fell quiet. Arthur waited a moment before he pressed his lips to the top of his head.

"It's my eyes, Arthur," groaned Alfred.

"I know," said Arthur quietly. "Francis told me the day you arrived."

Alfred stiffened in his arms. "You mean to say that he…"

"Hush love, yes," murmured Arthur. "I was only waiting for you to tell me yourself."

A growl rose in Alfred's chest and he snapped up in Arthur's arms, eyes blazing to life. "Why, I'll…" He tried to free himself but Arthur kept him close against his chest. An injured man was no match for a doctor who enjoyed a comfortable salary and plentiful rations, and after a moment Alfred relented, going limp and pressing his cheek into Arthur's shoulder again.

"He had no right," he mumble. "He had no right."

Arthur began to stroke his hair. "He very well did, Alfred," he said softly. "Considering that I am your doctor and I should know everything about you."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, considering this. "I thought you would figure it out when you saw me," he said eventually. "I thought you would know right away and I wouldn't have to worry about telling you. When you didn't realize it, I…" He paused. "I guess I got afraid."

Arthur pulled back in surprise, tilting Alfred's chin up to meet his gaze. "Afraid?" he almost demanded. "Goodness, afraid of what?"

Alfred fidgeted, tried to pull away, but Arthur would have none of it. After a moment he seemed to accept defeat and resorted to averting his gaze, color flooding his cheeks.

"You realize, Arthur," he mumbled. "I won't ever fly again."

Arthur blinked, not understanding. "No you won't," he said mildly, "and I'm very sorry about that, very sorry indeed."

To his surprise, Alfred winced.

"I…" he said slowly, as if frightened of his own words. "I'm sorry, Arthur, I didn't mean…I can't…I hope…" He trailed off entirely, looking outright miserable. Arthur gazed at him in abject bewilderment, unconsciously leaning forwards in confusion and reaching up to brush his thumb across his cheek.

"Stop that," he whispered without quite realizing that he was speaking at all. "Stop looking so sad when I can't understand why."

Alfred shut his eyes and pressed into Arthur's palm with a sigh.

"I didn't mean to disappoint you," he said after a long moment.

Arthur blinked and exhaled sharply, finding himself at a rare loss for words. Eventually, Alfred opened his eyes, chewing on his lower lip as he gazed up cautiously at Arthur from beneath the frames of his glasses. Their eyes met and Arthur shook his head, angry and pained and incredulous to see a flicker of fear skirt the edges of Alfred's expression like a shadow cast by candlelight.

"You idiot," he growled, gripping him by the shoulders. "You sodding idiot."

The fear flitted away to be replaced with confusion. Arthur shook Alfred once, twice, so that his glasses skewed across the bridge of his nose.

"You think I'm…disappointed?" Arthur gave him one last shake before he clutched him to his chest and buried his nose deep into his hair. "Please, Alfred…please don't tell me that's what you were afraid of. Don't tell me that you honestly believe that I could ever be disappointed with what you've done." Alfred said nothing, and Arthur chuckled disbelievingly. "Apparently some things never do change; no matter what, you're a fool, Alfred, and I'm beginning to suspect that you always will be." His voice emerged curiously muffled. "You fool, you insufferable, wonderful fool. I'm…Christ, I'm bloody thrilled that you're never going to fly again. It scared me senseless. I never imagined I could feel so afraid and vulnerable for a goddamn person, and I never want to feel that way again." He smiled into his hair. "Though at the rate you seem to be going, I doubt that I will get my wish."

Alfred was quiet for a long moment before he leaned back from Arthur's arms, lacing the fingers of their right hands together on his thigh and gazing up at him sheepishly from beneath his glasses.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," he said softly. "For not telling you."

Arthur shook his head exasperatedly, impossibly fondly, taking his other hand and pressing his palm firmly.

"Stop apologizing, it's not like you." He had to speak past the chuckle rising in his throat. "Why don't you just…oh, why don't you just jump up and grin and tell me that of course you weren't worried because heroes don't worry, or something equally ridiculous?" He lifted his hand and hesitantly pressed a kiss to one of the soft spots between his knuckles. "My very deepest apologies if my impression of you doesn't come off as terribly convincing, darling."

Alfred remained fixated on their still-joined hands, before he broke into an honest smile and lifted his gaze to Arthur.

"I missed you," he said, his grin fading into a tentative curve of the mouth.

"I know," replied Arthur, and leaned forwards to kiss him. He felt warm and pliable against his mouth, and the kiss was gentle to begin with, Alfred leaning forwards happily against Arthur's lips with a soft hum of contentment caught halfway in the back of his throat. After a moment of this, however, Arthur rather abruptly recalled the near month that had passed since they had truly seen each other, and as if picking up on some tacit signal, Alfred's hands were suddenly knotting into his hair, and he himself was hurtling forwards, fingers digging into the fabric of Alfred's hospital gown and contentedly fastening him there against his chest.

Without breaking away, Alfred scooted backwards across the examination table, haphazardly dragging Arthur along until he was splayed flat across his stomach, with his elbows balanced on either side of his head. Laughter bubbling in his throat, Arthur pulled away for a moment to arrange them properly, clicking his tongue softly against the roof of his mouth as he forced Alfred to prop himself up against the pillow at the end of the table so that his injuries would not be upset. He himself leaned back so that he straddled Alfred's hips with his hands braced against his chest, careful to avoid the bandages that drew mazes of linen and gauze beneath the fabric of his hospital gown. He tilted forwards and kissed Alfred again, smiling when he put his hands on his waist and began to draw clumsy circles along the curves of his hips, somehow managing to be haplessly tender even in such a moment.

The war seemed to have taken no malignant effect on Alfred's enthusiasm; he was as eager as ever, nudging forwards and opening his mouth and carving burning pathways up the small of Arthur's back with his palms. However, when Arthur pulled away briefly to shrug from his medical coat, not sparing it so much as glance as it crumpled to the floor, and made a dive for the tie of his hospital gown, Alfred was suddenly drawing away and spluttering like a broken spigot, and his hands were no longer dancing along Arthur's spine but rather held up almost defensively. Perplexed and somewhat irritated, Arthur sat back on his stomach, bracing his palms firmly against his ribcage and frowning. A moment passed and he realized that Alfred was looking at him with something akin to fear; he immediately softened and leaned forwards to cup his cheek, making a soft hushing sound from the back of his throat.

"Love, it's alright," he murmured, "what's the matter?"

Alfred's brow crinkled but he seemed unable to keep from pressing into Arthur's touch, conflict flitting across his expression.

"That's a little…" He was breathing heavily, but then again, so was Arthur. "Don't you think that's a little bit fast?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Well, we've fucked like this before," he said frankly, and had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling at the color that rushed to Alfred's cheeks. "But I suppose I wasn't really thinking; if you don't think that your injuries will be able to hold up, then we don't have to do anything, of course." He shrugged. "What's another few weeks after months, anyways?"

Alfred looked away, almost grimacing with discomfort. "It's not that, really."

Arthur sighed, gently brushing a wayward lock of corn-colored hair from his forehead.

"What is it, then, love?"

"It's just…I don't…" Alfred looked down. "Well, I guess you could say it is the injuries that are bothering me, after all. It's just that…" He paused. "It's just that I don't really know what to do with my body anymore." His cheeks glowed. "I've only just now started to use both my legs again, and my arms are still sore, so I…I don't know, it's kind of like being a little kid again and stumbling over everything, and I don't…" He bit down on his lower lip. "I don't…well, you know."

Arthur frowned. "If you dare so much as insinuate that you don't want to disappoint me…" He trailed off, exasperated, and shook his head as if to dispel the unpleasant thought. "Honestly, Alfred, it's not like you to be so self-conscious. It worries me. And I shouldn't have to tell you that it's not just a result of eagerness on my part due to the fact that I haven't, ah…seen you, per se…for months," he added, "it truly worries me."

"Is it that strange?" asked Alfred, returning his hands to Arthur's waist.

"It's uncharacteristic," replied Arthur, "rather than strange. You've been through quite a good deal, and from a medical standpoint I can honestly tell you that it's only natural that those experiences should change you to an extent. I suppose that the differences are only really noticeable to a trained eye such as mine. Nevertheless, I would hate to see you limit yourself as a result."

Alfred was quiet for a moment before chuckled, squeezing Arthur's hips.

"Please," he scoffed. "You just want to get in my shorts."

"You're not wearing shorts," retorted Arthur crisply, tilting his nose into the air. "And I will gladly proceed with this operation in whatever way makes you the most comfortable."

Alfred snorted. "Operation? Oh man, looks like you've been reading the news too much, Arthur." But his voice sunk to a more tender tone, and he resumed his pursuit of the circles over the bends of his hips. "I'd like to give it a shot," he said softly, glancing up at him shyly, as if for permission. "Just not right now."

Arthur smiled warmly and kissed Alfred on the forehead. "Of course, love," he said, clambering from the examination table with a grunt and offering his hand to help Alfred into an upright position as well. "As soon as you're ready, just say the word." He paused, then turned back to face Alfred, fidgeting with the sleeve of his medical gown. "You know, I have…ah…I have missed you terribly."

Alfred stopped in his descent from the examination table to adjust his glasses and look at Arthur quite seriously.

"You have no idea," he said, and the earnest note to his voice made Arthur's heart stutter despite himself. "You really have no idea."

Arthur felt heat rush to his neck and ears, and distractedly ran his fingers through his messy hair, reaching out with the other hand to fix the collar of Alfred's medical gown, which lay askew over his collarbone and revealed a glimpse of snowy white linen bandages.

"Best to look presentable," he said when Alfred glanced down at him bemusedly. "This whole affair isn't terribly professional, if you're not aware."

Alfred threw his head back with a laugh, stopping Arthur at the doorknob to press a brief kiss to his mouth, warm and almost cheerful.

"No," he chuckled as he pulled away, "not terribly professional indeed."

AN –Heads up that the next chapter won't exactly be safe for work.

Much gratitude to Trumpet-Geek, my darling historical consultant, and as always, thank you all so much for reading!