Chapter Twelve:

"What are you doing out here?" Wallace asked.

Alfred looked up, startled by the sudden sound. For the past—well, who knows how long—Alfred had had a world of quiet to call his own in this corner of the garden, hidden by the shade of trees and the deepening dark of the night. Here, away from the raucous cries of the party, the heady smell of alcohol, the cutting lights and the delirious, winking faces, Alfred could be himself again. Social grace had never been much his forte, even in his youth when Arthur insisted on dragging him to soirees thrown by this-or-that-head of this-or-that important establishment, and if it weren't for the fact that this celebration was for Wallace, Alfred would have left a long time ago.

"Just—thinking," Alfred said.

"Thinking?" Even in the shroud of dusk, Wallace's trademark frown was still visible, although, in the edges of his mouth, there was also a hint of playful teasing. "Come along, Alfred. Let's have none of that today."

Alfred chuckled without humor. "You always wanted me to use my brain—so now I am."

Wallace rolled his eyes. "That's a great bit of timing—out of all times you choose to be brooding, it has to be at my own wedding." Then, in a softer voice, tenderer, he said, "You never could obey orders, could you?"

"It's part of the package," Alfred said, the corner of his lips pulling up into a faint smile. When Wallace made a move to sit down on the ground beside him, Alfred jerked. "Hey—what're you—"

"Relax," Wallace snorted. "I may be an old man, but that doesn't mean I'm made of glass."

"I meant your clothes." Alfred shifted over to give Wallace room. "They'll get dirty."

"I'll be out of them in a little while, anyway," Wallace said, his eyes twinkling in mischief. "It is my wedding night after all."

"Oh, God," Alfred laughed, genuinely this time. "Remind me again—how old are you?"

"Fifty-four," Wallace said. "But I'm still doing better than you are. Remind me—how long has it been since you've been with anyone?"

Alfred gave Wallace a playful shove. "At least I don't act like a lovelorn fool straight from a Shakespearean play."

"It's called courting, for the record. And—it's supposed to be charming. But, you—the ever-graceful, Alfred Jones—would have difficulty with that, wouldn't you?"

"Please," Alfred smirked. "If I tried, I'd have the whole town falling to their knees."

"Don't be an ass," Wallace said. "God knows—you haven't tried in…a while, haven't you?"

"A while," Alfred repeated, abruptly sober. "Yes—I suppose."

After a long pause, in which there was no other sound but the chirp of crickets in the bushes and what sounded like the crash of glass on the floor inside the house followed by a round of renewed merriment, Wallace murmured, "What's on your mind?"

"Everything," Alfred sighed. "Take your pick."

"Jonathan?"

"Yes."

"President Buchanan?"

Alfred scowled in reply, his fists balling instinctively.

"I'll take that as a yes," Wallace said. Then, hesitantly, he said, "What about Arthur?"

"God, Wallace—that one's always there." Alfred shook his head. "I mean—I shouldn't think about him anymore, but…"

"He was your father," Wallace finished. "My parents have been gone for who-knows-how-many years, and they're still on my mind now and then."

Alfred chewed on his lip. He knew that Wallace was holding back from discussing—that. He had never told Wallace—had never told anyone, for that matter—but most people had guessed it anyhow, and all of them except for one had kept silent, out of respect for Alfred or out of fear of what might be unleashed if the topic was broached—Alfred couldn't tell. But, they had known, just as Wallace knew, that there might be more to Alfred's relationship with Arthur than simple blood ties.

"It will work out," Wallace said. "These—these things…they take time, after all."

"Time. Right." Then, Alfred said quietly, "Wallace, why are you still here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've been the Communicator for twenty-four years. Don't you want to—retire?"

Wallace jabbed Alfred in the side. "Are you getting tired of me?"

"Not at all," Alfred said. "It's just that—well, you are married now, and you have other…obligations. I don't see why you wouldn't want to—settle down?"

"Have I ever been known for settling down?" Wallace arched an eyebrow. "Alfred, the fact that I have a wife now—that won't change what I am to you."

"But, surely she would want—"

"Nancy is for me to worry about, not you," Wallace said, stressing the last word. "And…" Wallace paused, and Alfred could almost see him piecing the next sentence together. "And—well, let's face it, Alfred. Nancy and I are both old—the likelihood of us having children together is slim. So you—you are…"

"You don't have to say it, Wallace," Alfred said, turning to meet Wallace's eyes. "I understand."

"If you do, then you know why I'm staying."

"Yes—I do."

"God knows what kind of trouble you'd get into if I weren't here," Wallace said lightly, although there was an undercurrent of worry in his tone.

"God knows," Alfred agreed and leaned into Wallace's shoulder, glad at how firm and solid it felt, how sure in this reckless time. "You should get married more often, Wallace. It makes you much more pleasant to be around."

"Hmm—" Wallace grunted, but his arm encircled Alfred anyway, and for a moment, the two of them, silent, looked out towards the house, made brilliant by the lamplight.


"Alfred, the carriage is here."

Alfred turned away from the window. "What?"

Phillip was in the doorway, his eyes kind and patient. "The carriage is here," he repeated. "We should go."

"Right." Alfred stood up. "Of course—I'm sorry. I just was…" He couldn't finish and settled for a feeble shrug.

President Lincoln had telegraphed Alfred earlier this week, summoning him to Washington with no more reason than the cryptic comment that they needed to "discuss things"-although Alfred had a pretty good idea what "things" were up for conversation. Yet, even though such an event would have, under ordinary circumstances, captured a great deal of Alfred's attention, for the past two weeks ever since he had returned home, Alfred had felt like he had been wandering in a dense fog, all sense of time and urgency lost. Despite his best attempts to hold himself together—and despite Phillip's best attempts to aid his…recovery, if that was the right word—things still slipped out of Alfred's grasp and he often found himself staring at nothing in particular, caught up in memories that refused to let him go.

"It's fine, Mr. Jones." Phillip walked over and then frowned at the untouched lunch on the table. "You didn't eat again."

"I'm not hungry," Alfred said, the words slipping smoothly, too smoothly, out of his mouth. It wasn't as if he were lying—for the past week and a half his appetite had vanished. Anything that Phillip offered him tasted like sawdust and sand, and any attempts to swallow food—to spare Phillip the worry rather than for Alfred's own benefit—was met by the overpowering urge to retch onto the floor. Yet, Alfred couldn't deny that some dark side of him niggling at the back of his brain wanted him to deprive himself of any sustenance, as a sort of punishment for Wallace's death—even if Phillip insisted every chance he got that it was not Alfred's fault in the slightest.

"You must eat something before we go," Phillip said, firm. "Sit down, Mr. Jones—the carriage can wait."

Alfred sighed and sat, knowing that there was no point in arguing with Phillip, especially when he got that certain glint in his eye. Alfred had noticed that ever since Wallace had passed, Phillip had been more assertive—probably because where there were once had been two people to serve as Alfred's caretaker, there now was only one—and Alfred wasn't too keen to face Phillip's—well, wrath again—especially after the bath incident, when Phillip had practically dunked Alfred into the tub.

Alfred took a cautious sip of the soup, trying not to grimace as the taste hit his tongue and his stomach threatened to rebel. Feeling Phillip watching him with that ever-attentive gaze, Alfred said in a pathetic attempt at distraction, "Is there any news?"

"President Lincoln sent a telegraph this morning," Phillip said. "He says that the men he dispatched are still searching for the spies—but no progress has been made."

"Oh." Alfred nodded, unsure if he was relieved that Johnny had succeeded in smuggling the spies out, or bitter that the men and women who had possibly caused so much pain and suffering for the Union soldiers had slipped away without any penalty. "That's too bad."

"Yes—it is a shame," Phillip said. Then, in a low voice, he murmured, "I don't think I'll ever understand."

"Understand?" Alfred echoed.

"Why people would betray their own—own folk, I suppose." Phillip looked down at the table, unable to meet Alfred's eyes. "There was a slave at the plantation where I was—the master had a…fondness for him. That slave did nothing all day but tell on us—thought he was so much better because he was the master's favorite." Phillip's mouth curled downward with the memory, and a slight tremor ran through his voice as he continued. "I can still see him smirk as the master whipped me—well—" Phillip stopped and gave Alfred a wan smile. "That's the past, anyhow."

"Phillip—"

"Mr. Jones, it's all right. I've…I can't say I've come to terms with it, but it makes me glad to think that there are better men in the world—men like you," Phillip said, almost shyly.

Alfred scoffed. "Men like me—Phillip, I'm hardly a paragon of virtue. President Lincoln—now that's a man."

"Yes, President Lincoln," Phillip said. "But, you hardly give yourself any credit. You did take me in after all, when most people would have turned me away."

"Hmm—" Alfred stared down at his soup, embarrassed. "I—well, if you'd like to think of it that way."

"I can't imagine you in a Confederate uniform," Phillip said suddenly. "It's impossible."

"I wouldn't have thought about it either fifty years ago—but, there Johnny is now." Alfred sighed. "It's a bit—odd, to be looking at myself on the other side—I mean…if I—if I join."

"Will you join, Mr. Jones?" Phillip probed gently.

"I don't know, Phillip. I'm—it's been so long since I've fought anyone. The last war…it was before you were even born. And—God, Phillip, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing anymore." Alfred threw up his hands. "I've never fought a civil war—I don't know how I'm supposed to act—how…how things end up. I—" Alfred paused, surprised at the sudden lump that had grown in his throat. Then, lowly, he whispered, "I don't want to kill him, Phillip."

"He's changed, hasn't he?" Phillip murmured.

"He has," Alfred agreed.

"You don't hate him anymore." It wasn't even a question—no, it was just a simple statement of undeniable fact.

Alfred set his spoon down. "Hell, how can I? He's just a—he's just a damn kid."

"Aren't we all?" Phillip said. His shoulders slumped inwards. "For all I've seen, it still gets to me in the end."

"What do you mean?"

"Children—living children, dead children, children everywhere." Phillip covered his eyes. "Mr. Jones—my son, my daughters—they were all children when they died…or worse. And now you—and him, too." Phillip grit his teeth, and Alfred was surprised with how much venom each word held. "This war is being fought by children, Mr. Jones. It's—it's…" Phillip trailed off.

Alfred reached out to touch Phillip's arm. "I'm sorry," Alfred said, knowing the words were inadequate, but unable to think of anything else—because what else was there to say?

"It's not your fault, Mr. Jones." Phillip's hand grasped his. "It's—well, so it goes," Phillip said heavily, looking unbearably tired.

"Do you think we'll lose?" Alfred said quietly.

"I don't know. I…I can only hope we don't. For—for all of our sakes…especially yours." Phillip gave Alfred a sad look. "If we lose, Mr. Jones, what will happen to you?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Alfred said. "Nobody…nobody ever told me, really. I mean, if Johnny chooses to invade the Union and conquer us…then, I suppose I'll…disappear." The thought was alien, almost fantastical, and Alfred would have laughed at how ludicrous it sounded, if it weren't for the fact that Phillip was staring at him in horror, if it weren't for the fact that Alfred's own hands were shaking, if it weren't for the fact that Alfred might be able to die after all—that everything that was Alfred Jones would vanish into…nowhere.

What would happen after that? And—

What would Arthur think?

"Mr. Jones…" Phillip choked out.

"It's only—it's only theory, Phillip," Alfred said, trying to sound confident. "There's no indication that the Confederacy will invade, after all. And—it's really too early right now to predict how this will end."

Phillip didn't say anything, only held Alfred's hand tighter.

"We ought to go, Phillip," Alfred said. "We've kept them waiting long enough."

Phillip didn't move. He only kept looking at Alfred with those brown eyes of his, melancholy and solemn and trembling with many other emotions that Alfred couldn't ever hope to understand—that culminated in one single word: Don't.

"I'm all right, Phillip," Alfred said softly. "You don't have to be afraid for me."

"That's what my son said," Phillip said, and his voice broke. "Mr. Jones, look what happened to him."

Alfred leaned over and, shaking off Phillip's slackening grip, he placed his hands on Phillip's shoulders. "Listen to me, Philip," he said lowly. "I'll be fine. We'll all be fine. And—one day—when this war is over—we'll look back on it and think how silly we were, to have thought it would turn out otherwise."

"And if you're not there, Mr. Jones? When the war is over?"

"Then—then you'll just have to look back without me, won't you, Phillip?"

In a sudden motion, with such strength that Alfred was caught off balance, Phillip pressed Alfred close against his chest, and Alfred held him back as Phillip wept into his collar, the slick of tears against Alfred's cheek.


Alfred was careful for the next few days as they traveled to the capital to not mention the war to Phillip in any capacity. First, because he feared that Phillip would break down again—and Alfred couldn't bear the thought of anyone so close to him hurt in that way—and second, because Alfred himself didn't want to deal with the increasingly relevant possibility that, if the Union lost and the Confederacy chose to capture it for its own, he might be lost along with it.

Arthur had told him when he was little about the Roman Empire—how he had simply walked off one day after the sack of Rome and disappeared along with his once great kingdom that had stretched from the coast of Spain to the shores of Turkey.

Alfred had the belief that his own demise would be far more painful—and far less glorious. He'd probably sink into a trench one day, bloody and broken, swallowed by the earth, never to be found again. Or, perhaps, his body would still remain, and the crows would peck at his bones and tear at his flesh, and maybe Arthur would someday look at what happened to his beloved child, reduced to nothing more than a skeleton half-stuck in the sodden, grey dirt.

Well, Arthur would still have Johnny, Alfred supposed, although that did nothing to lessen the bile that lurched in his stomach. Let Arthur play with Alfred's look-alike, and maybe he'd feel sorry over what had happened and wished that he had had time to reconcile with his estranged son before time had run out—

But, Alfred was getting ahead of himself. One day at a time.

One day at a time.

It was evening when Alfred had finally arrived in Washington, D.C., after three hard days of traveling. Immediately, one of Lincoln's assistants had greeted him, and with promises that his luggage would be sent up to his quarters, he had been ushered inside and upstairs to Lincoln's office, and before Alfred could even comprehend how quickly everything had moved, he was standing in front of the president himself, who gazed at him with serene eyes.

"Hello, Alfred," Lincoln said. It had been a solid six months since Alfred had seen him, and Lincoln still looked—well, like himself. Most presidents, in Alfred's experience, had a profound change after they had settled into their new office—whether they became more pompous or more withdrawn was up to the man himself, but Lincoln was one of those rare men who seemed to stay the same—a feat that even Washington himself could not accomplish. His top hat was still tilted slightly to the left. His smile was still as kind and as powerful as ever, magnetizing. And—God, was he tall as he made his way to Alfred and embraced him.

"Mr. President," Alfred said, feeling a grin begin at the corners of his mouth. He always felt at ease with Lincoln—his presence was almost therapeutic, and Alfred could understand why the people had elected him. There was a sort of natural grace to Lincoln despite his intimidating stature—a grace that Alfred certainly could not pull off even on his best day.

"None of that nonsense, Alfred," Lincoln said, waving him over to a set of couches by the fireplace. "I didn't send you all the way over here to hear more formality. I get enough of that at home." Although his tone was chiding, there was a twinkle in his eye.

"What should I call you then? Mr. Lincoln? Abe?" Alfred teased, seating himself and sighing at how nice the plush cushions felt after hours of sitting in a carriage that always managed to jostle Alfred's tailbone whenever it hit a bump in the road.

"Mr. Lincoln will do…for now." Lincoln smiled. Then, he said, suddenly serious, "How are you, Alfred?"

"Me?" Alfred shrugged. "I'm…well, I suppose."

"I heard about what happened after the Battle of Bull Run," Lincoln said, his face grave.

"That was…I didn't—it was kind of a…spontaneous decision," Alfred said lamely. "I—I'm fine—I mean, I'm better than I was before."

"That's nice to hear." Lincoln leaned back thoughtfully. "I heard about your exploit into the wilderness of Pennsylvania, but I'd like to get your side of it. Did it do you any good?"

Alfred flushed. "Well—when you put it that way. It was…I don't know—I—I needed it," he admitted.

"Did you feel trapped at the house?" Lincoln said, not accusing, just curious.

"I—yes," Alfred said. "This whole war…it's just been…"

"I'd say I understand—but really, there are few people in the world who would, and I'm not one of them." Lincoln shook his head. "But, no more stunts like that, Alfred. I can't have our national Personification wander off like that—especially, from what I've heard, when the stakes were so high." Lincoln gave Alfred a knowing look. "You met Johnny, the national Personification of the Confederacy, from what I've gathered—and he bested you, as well. Alfred, he could have dragged you off to the South, and then—well, what a mess that would have been."

Alfred didn't reply, only ducked his head in chagrin.

"He let you go, didn't he?"

"Yes, Mr. Lincoln—he did."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Alfred said, and the answer was honest, because, really, to this day, he had no idea. He had guesses, but certainly nothing more solid than hypotheses. "Mr. Lincoln, I really don't know."

"Hmm…That is a mystery—a very intriguing one, for sure. I was certain that you two—disliked each other. But, it seems that you managed to work something out?"

"It seems so."

"I suppose we'll have to be content with that for now." Lincoln nodded, almost to himself. Then, after a brief pause, he said, in a softer tone, "I'm going to assume you already know about Wallace?"

"Yes, Mr. Lincoln," Alfred said, biting his lip.

"Then you also know that the position of Communicator is open?" Lincoln said, and it might have been blunt if it hadn't been for that warmth in Lincoln's eyes, the way his voice fell into a hush as it stroked over the words.

"Yes," Alfred said. Then, before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "Mr. Lincoln, do you know who will fill the position?"

"I do—but with your permission, of course," Lincoln said. "I thought it might be the best for the new Communicator to be someone close to you—we are in a-well, a crisis after all, and this is hardly the time for a completely different change of guard. So—" Lincoln gave him an almost conspiratorial look. "How does Phillip sound to you?"

"What?"

Lincoln frowned at him. "That is his name, isn't it? Phillip? The man who came with you today?"

"Yes—yes, that his name," Alfred scrambled to recover. "I mean—Mr. Lincoln, that sounds…that sounds—just—I would love—" He stopped, having lost all semblance of coherence.

"I thought you would," Lincoln said. "I can only hope he feels the same way."

"When are you going to tell him?" Alfred asked.

"Tonight. I think I'll be paying him a special visit." Lincoln winked at him. "Do you think he'd appreciate it?"

"He'd be honored," Alfred said, and he couldn't resist beaming at Lincoln—because, Phillip deserved it, after so many years of hardship and suffering, he deserved this proud moment. It was hardly enough to compensate for—everything—but it was a start.

"I'm glad," Lincoln said. "Now—Alfred, I might have brought you to the capital under false pretenses."

"False pretenses?" Alfred repeated. "What do you mean?"

Lincoln only smiled at him, a glint in his eye. "I may have neglected in mentioning to you that we have a special guest in Washington. It's nothing to be—"

A sudden knock at the door interrupted his sentence, and Lincoln shrugged. "Well, I suppose you'll find out soon enough."

"Mr. Lincoln, I don't—"Alfred started, but before he could press any more, the door swung open and—no. No, there was no way. It couldn't…there…no.

"Sir, I just wanted to—oh," the voice—British, so, so, British—cut off as green eyes met blue, before recovering, swiftly, hastily, "I suppose—I'll leave you two—"

"No, Mr. Kirkland, please stay." Lincoln rose. "I have a few errands to run, so why don't you two…get to know each other?"

Alfred looked up at Lincoln, almost begging for him to remain in the room—he didn't want to be with…with…no, not right now—he couldn't—he couldn't handle…but Lincoln was gone and the door had swung shut, and those green eyes were now wary, and—damn.

Damn it all to hell.

"Alfred."

The blood was pounding through Alfred's veins, and Alfred could feel a cold sweat start to break out on his back, spots dancing at the corners of his vision—and, God—what should he say? What could he say?

"Arthur," Alfred finally choked out. "Arthur."


Author's Note:

Well, it took twelve chapters, but the reunion's finally happened-any guesses on how it will turn out? I'd love to hear your theories. :P In any case, if you liked what you have read and would like to see more, please leave a review! :)