A/N First off – a tremendous Thank You to everyone who's read/reviewed/favorited/alerted this fic! It really has become my pet, my baby, these last few weeks, so your support means a lot!

Alexei is Romania. I know most fans call him Vladimir, but I liked Alexei better.

Warnings for this chapter: the usual – language and my attempts at writing implied smut. This chapter is largely Gilbert-centered, with his ruminations and a flashback. I call this one an interlude because it's not as long as the other chapters and not a whole lot happens. Enjoy!

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Interlude

Berlin, January 1927

Gilbert hated the new doorman. Not just on principle. Not because he'd been forced to give up his job by the Russian – actually, bartending was a decent trade-off, nowhere near as boring. No, he hated the doorman because he didn't trust him.

Short and swarthy, Alexei the Bouncer smiled with pointed teeth.

It was probably the teeth that did it – that solidified Gilbert's mistrust. There was something rat-like about them….

Rat-like. Good quality to have in a snitch. Made them easier to spot, Gilbert thought as he wiped a glass.

Alexei was perched, as ever, on a stool by the door. Arms folded across his chest, eyes scanning the crowd, with that stupid bowler hat he always wore cocked at an angle.

He had started work at the club a week after Ivan had made his agreement with Roderich. The numbers at the club dipped shortly after. Gilbert owed it to Alexei's presence – perched, gargoyle-like by the door, he was truly intimidating….But eventually, like everything else that wasn't a pretty boy in a dress on stage, Alexei faded into the background, became part of the wall. Gilbert still saw him. So had Berwald. Hell, Alexei was part of the reason Berwald quit. Though he never said it aloud, Gilbert knew. The regime change just didn't sit right with the reserved bartender. He agreed to stay on a month longer, to train up Gilbert, but at the end of December, Berwald was gone. It was his own silent form of protest, Gilbert guessed. Ivan didn't even bat an eye.

It saddened Roderich to see him go. Berwald had been there ever since Roderich had taken over from Bernd. But…times change – people change – things change – and so on and so forth – have a pick of platitudes.

Gilbert shrugged his shoulders. A cramp started to develop in the left one. Only then did he notice he'd been polishing the same glass for damn near fifteen minutes, glaring at Alexei. He stopped, set it down, turned his gaze elsewhere – lest the new boss should find out.

His eyes fell on Roderich at the piano. Roderich. Playing some upbeat jazz number. He should have been smiling that subtle way of his when he forgot people were watching – the one that drove Gilbert mad when he first saw him. But he wasn't. His face was set, stoic. Had been that way since the telegram. It took a great deal of coaxing, but eventually Gilbert got its message out of him – though the name, Wilhelmina, should have been enough of a clue.

It seemed Roderich's parents had no need of their son's well wishes. Had no room far enough removed where he could stay, where they could tolerate his presence, so he could see for himself his mother was going to be all right. Even for a day. Gilbert knew things were bad between them, but he had no idea it was that bad. He knew Roderich sent them cards for Christmas and birthdays, would ring up a florist in Eisenstadt to have flowers sent to his mother on her birthday. Apparently it counted for nothing. And Gilbert couldn't help but feel the tiniest wrench of guilt. It had been he, after all, who had taken Roderich away. Persuaded him to abandon his familial duty. Shown him that life could be so much more. That it could be daring and uncertain instead of comfortable, predictable. That love was not just what was taught in church or school or society. It was not only just a thing shared between a man and a woman. It was something shared by all – man and man, woman and woman, woman and man….

Well. It all sounded so nice in his head, but when Gilbert tried to say these things, all he could manage was an off-hand quip. Who else would put up with your shit? Still, the fact they were back together, in a way, should count for something, right? He had never intended it. Never imagined Roderich's generosity would have extended this far when he knocked on that door two years ago. So…maybe some things were fine not to say. Maybe saying them would ruin it, like it had done all those years ago back in Dresden, back with him….

No. Don't think on that. Don't think….Just get back to work and don't think….

A few seconds later, a young fop wound his way up to the bar and placed a large drinks order for his table. Gilbert was thankful for the momentary distraction, but soon found his thoughts wandering again as he uncorked a wine bottle – this time to Italy, and to his and Roderich's last night together….

They were finally off that damned mountain, billeted in a village at its base. Gilbert's unit was in an abandoned house. Some of its windows were missing – had been blown out or broken out or who the hell cared. It was shelter, plain and simple. Though they could still feel the bite of cold wind whipping down the mountain, it beat the hell out of trenches in the snow.

Roderich's unit was in the house's adjacent barn. Gilbert found him easily enough. While the rest of the men sat huddled in groups, trying to keep warm as the cold worked its way in through the wood slats, Roderich sat apart. He always had. Gilbert half-wondered sometimes if the Austrian was hoping to freeze to death before their next attack. He smirked to himself as he sauntered over, two cups of steaming ersatz coffee held in either hand. He handed one to Roderich, crouching down beside him in the straw.

Drink it while its hot, he'd said.

Thank you, Roderich said, taking the cup.

They drank in silence. Eventually, the voices of the men died away as sleep overcame each in turn. But Roderich would not sleep. Neither would Gilbert.

My transfer is official, Gilbert said at length. My unit ships out tomorrow.

All Roderich could do was look at him.

Hey, this ain't the last you'll see of me, Gilbert said. He tried to smile, but it was more pained than reassuring. I've got your address. Gilbert patted the pocket holding the folded slip of paper Roderich had given him. I plan on looking you up when we…I mean when this…well, you know, Gilbert shrugged, unable to say the thing he and Roderich both hoped was true.

Still, all Roderich could do was look at him.

Gilbert gave an uneasy laugh. Specs, say somethin'. You're worrying me….

Roderich's eyes darted past Gilbert, past his shoulder, to where the rest of his unit lay, sound asleep under the straw. An occasional grunt or snore punctuated the still air.

Roderich looked back at Gilbert.

They were safe.

No one to see.

He leaned forward, lips meeting Gilbert's. He held them there for a moment, so soft, so delicate, then backed almost timidly away.

What happened next passed in a blur to Gilbert. He remembered clutching Roderich's shoulders, drawing him close, kissing him for what felt like an eternity until they were forced to part to draw breath. He remembered seeing the empty stall and shared look of understanding on both their faces. He remembered lying down, in that stall, with Roderich. And hands. Hands exploring over, under. But never undressing. Not fully. Just enough. Because, God, if they were caught….

Gilbert tried not to think about that. Not now. Not while they were so close. Whatever he and Roderich said, whatever false hope they had of getting out of this war alive, he knew he would have no other chance. Better to take it now and be done….

A sharp intake of breath from Roderich. Gilbert thought wildly he would have to clamp his hand around the Austrian's mouth to silence him, but Roderich bit back the cries of pained pleasure. And as he came, Gilbert was sure that night he died….

Something cold leaked over his hand. Cold and wet and –

Shit. The beer he'd been pouring spilled out over the glass. Forgot to tip the fucking thing. Half the glass was nothing but white foam.

He shook his hand off, wiping it unceremoniously on the rag slung over his shoulder. His eyes darted up, scanning the club. No one was at the bar. No one had seen. They were too preoccupied, cosseted safely at their tables, with their gossip and little glowing lamps and pretty boys in dresses. What Gilbert had seen, in that brief interlude between pouring the fop's wine and ruining someone else's beer, had happened a lifetime before any of them could remember.

Stupid. The stupidest damned thing at the strangest moments…like he told Roderich on that night last year. Well. At least this was one of the better flashbacks. Hell, it was the best one….

The poorly drawn beer sat on the bar's lower counter, the white foam gradually receding. Gilbert snatched up another glass and pulled the tap, drawing it right this time. He plunked it on the bar top just as a waiter bustled back around for it. He poured the other glass down the sink, rinsing away the foam. That's what he got for thinking.