Soldiers crash around him, shouting orders, as the deafening stutter of the guns hammers through his skull. He weaves through smoking buildings, clambering over the rubble of the blasts. Through the chaos and the fumes, he sees a fallen sign — Hospital.

Heart battering against bloodied teeth, he moves towards the building with legs of lead. Through the scorch-marked doors, he passes into a ward. Half of the walls have been blown apart and the beds are empty — except for one.

He recoils, fighting against the compulsion which drags him towards the bed, like strings of barbwire. He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to see—

His mother is laid out, her hazel-brown eyes, once the same as his own, are now sunken into her skull, her lustrous raven hair which earned her so much praise now limp and falling out in patches, her skin is sallow with a yellowish translucent sheen like the ghost she is. A skeletal hand reaches for him…

"Johnny…"

"No. NO. NO!"

He cries into waking, shuddering hard, nails scraping beneath his skin. His heart bludgeons his chest as ice bullets through his veins, his throat raw and filling with blood.

Arms fold around him. He thrashes against them.

Fingers comb through his hair, a sleep-thick voice whispers in his ear. "Ssh. Ssh. It was a dream. I'm here. You're here. John. Sshhh. It's alright."

He convulses, bile in his throat, sweat damp on his brow, then he is falling into the body holding him up. His hand latches in invisible curls as he gasps, breathing in the familiar lavender scent, "h-h-Hero…"

Her voice comes sure and grounding, "It's me. I've got you."

He grits his teeth, feeling hot tears spill from his eyes as he buries his face in her shoulder. She hushes him, stroking his head, cradling him to her. They sink into the mattress, folded around each other. Hero's hands card along his back, in his hair. With each gentle sweep of her fingers, he feels his pulse calming, his muscles unclench, the adrenaline subsides.

"It was just a dream. You're here."

Just a dream…

The vision of his mother's wasting form is a scar across his mind, nausea swirling in his stomach. He never saw her like that, in the hospital. He never visited her before she died. He couldn't… if he had she would have seen in him the truth about Stanford, realised what a disappointment he was. But more than that he was a coward and he hadn't wanted to face her dying. He still can't.

"John," Hero's fingers grace his face. "You're alright. I'm here."

He squeezes his eyes shut, blocks out all thoughts, and clutches her to him, clinging to the shape of her beneath his hands. Hero, Hero, Hero…

There is nothing but him and her, together in this bed. The world outside does not exist. Pressed together like this there is no space for their pasts. It is just him and her. Him and her.

He drifts into a half-slumber, asleep but aware all the time of Hero beside him, her own quiet breaths in his ear, curled around him. As far as dreams go… it is the loveliest he has ever known…

:-x-:

"Don't toy with Hero."

John looks up from where he is crouched before the vines and into Beatrice's storm-blue gaze. "I'm not."

"You are very cozy for two people who met a few days ago."

He glances around the rows, checking none of the other pickers are near enough to overhear, then he turns back to Beatrice with a hiss, "Of course, I am her husband."

"You say that as if you would like it to be true."

He sucks in his lips, feeling them press against his teeth before he schools his features into a blank mask. "A good lie should be convincing."

"Are you convincing?" She asks, her own face smooth as her blade. "Are you a liar? That which serves my cousin can easily work against her."

He stands, not liking her looking down on him, and turns his attention to the grapes. "What's your point?"

"My point," she flashes her knife, "is simple. Hurt Hero, take advantage of her trust, awake feelings in her you have no intention of reciprocating, and I shall do to your cock as I do to these grapes."

With one slash, she severs the grapes from the vine, catching them in her open palm.

Even as John feels his balls shrivelling, he hears himself drawl, "If only you'd done so to her professor, we could have avoided the whole issue."

Beatrice bites down on a grape. He winces.

"You know what they say… better late than never at all."

She saunters off from him, her knife glinting in the sun, speckled red with the juice of the grapes. John knows it will be a while before the last of his hairs stop standing on end. If Borachio is unable to dig-up anything on Roussillon, he is happy to leave the creep for Beatrice to manage.

:-x-:

Hero is returning from another trip to the bathroom when nausea strikes. She doesn't have time to hustle back inside, and instead ducks into the walled garden, unheaving her stomach behind the rhododendrons.

She groans, the misnamed "morning" sickness has been plaguing her almost as much as her bladder. She doesn't know how long her symptoms will go unnoticed. It is bad enough sharing the house with her family, let alone working outdoors in the sights of the whole community.

Earlier that morning John had held back her hair as she wrenched into the toilet, rubbing between her shoulders, then helped her clean-up afterwards (she was afraid what conclusions the maids would draw if she didn't). Her father had given John a disapproving look when they finally arrived in the rows, blaming him for their tardiness. John had not reacted, but went about harvesting the grapes as he had the previous day, showing no resentment towards the labour he had been badgered into.

He keeps close to her, checking in on her well-being, covering for her frequent trips into the house. When she stumbled into him on the train, she had no idea what a dedicated partner she was colliding with. A note of rue bitters her tongue, separate to the vomit, that she did not meet him sooner.

The sickness subsides for the moment and she tidies herself, making certain she looks presentable before she exits the walled garden.

"Hero, I was hoping to talk to you."

"Claudio!" She startles. Cold panic washes over her that he might have heard her being sick. "Uh… ab-about what?

He narrows the distance between them, gaze intense. "How could you marry him?"

"Ex-excuse me?"

"That jackass. How could you choose him?"

Hero stiffens. "John is not a jackass."

"What do you even see in him?"

"I am not having this conversation." Again. She walks around him.

"You're not even going to give me an explanation? Do I mean that little to you?"

She whirls back to him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You and me," he crosses to her, "I'm talking about you and me."

He tries to take her hands but she jerks back. "What—there is no you and me."

He presses forwards, "There has always been a you and me, since we were kids, chasing each other around the vineyard. We used to pretend we were married; we were supposed to grow-up and marry for real."

"But that—that was our parents' hope, never ours. You never took any notice of me."

"That's not true!"

She folds her arms. "We may have played chase as kids, but as soon as we grew-up you were off chasing other girls."

"That's not fair! I was a kid! I was stupid! I didn't appreciate what was right in front of me, but I've always loved you!"

"You—what?" She gawps at him.

He fixes her with eyes like melted chocolate. "I love you, Hero. I always have."

Her stomach swoops, aching and hollow after upheaving it over the bushes. "You — You've never said!"

This time when he seizes her hands, she is too shocked to pull back. "I didn't think I needed to. I know… I know I should have said something sooner, but — I thought you understood. I thought… you'd wait for me." His face crumples and if he were a dog his ears would be drooping. "Why didn't you wait for me?"

"I…" She gapes at him. "You… you never… you didn't…"

"I thought about you during the war… I almost died countless times… it made me realise what was important." He squeezes her fingers. "Who was important. I wanted to write you letters, but… words never seemed enough. I was waiting for the day when I saw you again and could… unclasp my heart. As soon as I saw you here, I was overcome with your beauty. I was going to drop to my knees and propose then and there. But of course… you're already married."

These last words are spoken with such bile that Hero's nausea stirs. "Cl-Claudio I—I don't—I don't know what to say—"

"I guess it doesn't matter now." He frowns down at her hands, at her wedding ring. "You made your choice. I hope he can love you. Though it will never be half as much as I do."

He drops her hand and stalks away.

Hero watches him go, quaking from his revelation. Her eyes warm and she gasps for breath. Something rattles loose in her chest as the tears pour forth, sobs clogging her throat. She hurries into the walled garden, hiding her pitiful self and weeps.

:-x-:

"Are you alright?" Beatrice asks when Hero joins her in the rows, having at last composed herself.

"Y-Y-Yes, I'm fi-fine."

"Your eyes are red."

She sniffs and rubs her eye, lashes damp. "Just — Just hayfever."

Beatrice looks sceptical but she doesn't push. "You were gone a long-time… people noticed. Your father included."

Hero's stomach knots; the last thing she wants is an interrogation.

"He was complaining to your husband about the grapes not being picked but John said he would handle your share."

"O-oh…"

Hero peaks over the vines, across the rows to where John is working twice as hard as everyone else, despite how tired he must be, the mid-afternoon sun at its hottest. She should go to him, but after Claudio's confession her insides feel all twisted and jittery. She is not ready for his dark-eyed scrutiny upon her.

Instead, she squirms under Beatrice's focus. As always, her cousin is unnervingly perceptive. "Has something happened?"

"Please can we focus on picking grapes, Bea." She doesn't want to consider what conclusions Beatrice is drawing, but if she presses her, Hero thinks she will burst like one of their grapes, splattering everywhere.

Maybe Beatrice recognises this because she keeps her tone light and gentle. "I've been meaning to tell you, darling, I acquired a copy of Georgette Heyer's newest novel Friday's Child. It's fantastic, an absolute farce, you'll love it, and the lead ingenue is named Hero—"

:-x-:

Beatrice keeps the conversation light, managing to coax a few smiles out of Hero as they progress down the rows. She is kind enough not to push and nothing is said of John or Claudio. Hero's breaths still feel wet and shaky, but she manages to spend the rest of the afternoon picking grapes without needing to run inside.

As the sun sinks, so does the tiredness in her bones. She wants nothing more than to hide in her room, afraid to face Claudio and everyone else. She feels raw, as if her skin has been abraded and all her secrets exposed. She longs to climb into her wardrobe, close her eyes, and count to ten… wind back the clock to when she was a child and erase all her mistakes…

But her absence has already been commented on and she needs to avoid further suspicion. Instead of retreating, she slinks inside Beatrice's shadow, knowing her bold and brash cousin will divert all attention from her, and sits at the opposite end of the table to Claudio and his father, keeping her head down.

She senses John before he speaks, settling beside her. "Hey."

She shifts her head in his direction, her hair spilling like a veil between them. "Hello."

"How are you? I haven't seen you since lunch…?" There is a question in his voice.

She side-steps around it. "I'm fine. I was with Beatrice."

He is quiet, eyes burning into the side of her face. Her insides slither. The silence presses like sandpaper against her skin.

"How are you?" She broaches, feeling as if she were sucking on a sharp rock, her gaze narrowed to his ear.

"Fine." He pauses, then, "I never gave credit for how taxing a task grape-picking is."

She braves a look at his eyebrow. "Do you… wish you'd left when you had the chance?"

She casts her gaze back to her plate. He is quiet for a beat, waiting for her to look at him. When she doesn't, he breathes out.

"No," is his soft answer. He brings a bowl of olives towards her. "You like these."

She does. She takes a handful and picks them off her plate. "Thank you."

She spies the movement of his chin as he nods.

They spend dinner listening as Beatrice entertains their section of the table, earning laugh after laugh. Hero focuses on her food, though she has little appetite. John doesn't force more conversation on her, though he steers more dishes in her direction, being unwilling to lift her head high enough to request them herself. The surrounding atmosphere is as merry as the night before, but Hero feels as if she hovers before a ravine, the dam that holds the flood is slowly fracturing. How much longer can she maintain this pretence, this lie?

She lasts an hour before making her retreat, moving to help the staff carry the empty plates inside. Beatrice catches her eye, but doesn't call attention to her. John has been drawn into conversation with Antonio, but he looks up as Hero shuffles from the scene. Guilt worms inside her as she glances away.

She enters the house, the place is quiet and dim, everyone is celebrating outside. Her feet throb as she climbs the stairs, burning with each step. She kicks off her shoes as soon as she enters her bedroom and staggers to the bathroom, deciding a hot bath is what she needs.

She listens to the water run, stripping out of her clothes, her body aching and shivering in the pale light. She slides the gold band from her finger, careful not to damage the delicate foil as she places it on the counter. She sinks into the warm bath, skin flushed and prickling from the heat. She should have waited for the water to cool, but only when it burns does she feel close to clean.

She watches the water ripple around her stomach, distorting the image so it appears to swell. She slips deeper underwater until it laps at her chin, curls snaking around her in inky coils. The rising steam pricks at her eyes, causing hot tears to blend with the bathwater. She hugs herself, gasping around sobs as she shudders in the tub. All of her feels like one blue, beating bruise.

There is a knock at the bathroom door. "Hero?"

She jolts at John's voice, water splashing as the tear-tracks sear her cheeks.

"Hero? Can I come in?"

"No!" She shrieks, more water splashing over the sides as she moves in a panic, eyes fixed on the turning doorknob.

The doorknob stills. "Are you... alright?"

"Y-Yes!" She squeaks, drawing her legs to her chest and hunching over her knees.

"Are you sure? You're not ill or in pain?"

"I'm f-fine," she chokes, her words tasting of salt and snot. "Th-Thank you."

There is a pause and she can sense he is still there, hovering beside the door. "I'll go then. Sorry for disturbing you."

She hears him leaving and her arms fly from the tub in a spray of droplets, "Wait! John!" She stares at the closed door, hands curling as they fall. In a small voice she pleads, "Don't go."

The silence presses in around her, stifling worse than the steam of the bath. There is the thump of a body against the door and then John speaks, "How can I help?"

She exhales, folding her arms back around her knees. "I'm sorry I abandoned you outside, it wasn't fair of me."

He makes a sound dry and derisive, "I'm not your pet, Hero. You don't have to give me constant attention."

A chill runs through her, even as she submerges herself in the warm water. "I… don't… um… I'm still… sorry…" She rolls onto her side, wrapping her arms around herself, "...I'm sorry…"

The door creaks. "Hero…"

She breathes in, squeezing her eyes shut and pushes her head underwater. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears, the water reverberating as it slams against the tub.

She lingers there, in the world of ripples and echoes, a burning in her lungs until she is forced to the surface for air. John is silent and she rests her head on the cold lip of the bath, wondering if he left. She watches her hair drip, drip, drip onto the tiled floor, eyes stinging.

As her vision blurs, she hears his voice projected through the door, "'Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,' grumbled Jo, lying on the rug."

She jerks upright, gaze whipping to the door.

"''It's so dreadful to be poor!' sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress."

He reads without inflection, doing nothing to shape his voice to the characters. He pauses once or twice and she urges him with a simple, "Go on."

She leans against the tub, her heart caught in her throat, and watches her shadow on the door. John reads through the entire first chapter of Little Women, the bathwater turning cold, her fingers wrinkling like prunes, yet she sits there, motionless, his voice warm around her.

As he finishes the first chapter and starts on the second, Hero rises from the bath, grabbing a towel to dry herself. She pulls on her robe, tying it closed around her naked form, and moves to the door.

He looks up in surprise when she opens it and moves to stand, but she shakes her head, spraying more droplets as she crouches down beside him. He tenses as she settles her head on his thigh, a damp patch forming on his trousers. After a long pause, where she says nothing, he reads on. Hero stares at his sock-clad feet, his steady voice enveloping her.

He makes it through most of the chapter, only faltering on the name Don Pedro and then she hears herself speaking, "You were right about Claudio… he told me he loves me."

John stills, the muscles in his leg tightening beneath her. He shuts the book, breath rushing out, sharp, "Did he."

"He said… um… he said he would have married me… if I wasn't… if I wasn't already…" Her fingers curl against his thigh.

There is a rigidness to him, a woodenness that was not present a moment ago. "Did you tell him… you aren't actually married?"

She shifts upright, drawing back from him to sit against the doorframe, eyes cast to her hands, bunching in her robe, and her barren ring-finger. "No… He took me by surprise, I never imagined he felt that way…"

"Shame," his voice is droll, the hairs on her neck rising. "If you'd known you could have married him instead. You needn't have bothered with me."

Her pulse leaps, twanging painfully with the motion. "What? No. I-I couldn't… I wouldn't have married him." Her hands knot in her belt. "And besides, he wouldn't want me when… when he found out I am… carrying another man's child."

John's eyebrows flick up his forehead. "He loves you, doesn't he?"

She bites her lip, shoulders hunching as she wraps her arms around herself and stares at her bare feet. "There are some things a man cannot accept…"

"Then he doesn't deserve you." He says it, plain and simple. His expression, when she looks at him, is unwaveringly sincere, like all of him believes it.

Heat wells at the corners of her eyes, throat constricting so she cannot speak the words which spring from her heart. Which is probably just as well.

"Anyway…" He frowns at the floor. "You could lie."

It is as if he has held a grenade to her ear and pulled the pin. Her head reverberates. "Lie?"

"Tell him the child is his."

She recoils in horror. "I couldn't do that! I could never trick someone like that! It would be cruel." She stares down at her stomach, cradling it. "To all of us."

John is quiet. She feels him regarding her and tries to ignore how her pulse quickens, wondering what he is thinking.

"I don't want a husband I have to lie to… one who only accepts my child if they share blood." Her voice grows stronger as she speaks, thick with resolve. "If that means I never marry, so be it. I will raise this child alone but I will never let them doubt they are loved."

She peaks across at John then and freezes. The look he is giving electrifies her, so intense and focused.

He pushes himself from the floor, holding out his hand to her, which she accepts, her gaze locked with his. He helps her to stand but doesn't let go once she is on her feet. His eyes bore into her own and though they never leave her face, she is conscious that all she has on is a robe over her naked, damp body.

"Anyone who wouldn't want you is an idiot."

His words quiver like an arrow through her heart and she feels hot and flushed, her knees weak. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, but she doesn't bother with words. She throws herself forward, flinging her arms around him, and pressing herself into his firm chest.

For a second, he is frozen. Then his arms settle around her, careful, as if the slightest pressure could bruise her. They remain like that, the moment stretching out in heartbeats, his chest rising and falling under her head. His warmth radiates through her; his arms around her are safe and affirming. Bertram never held her like this; their embraces rarely more than a fumble of clothes.

John's touch is not demanding, but considerate, gentle, unpresuming. His fingers ghost across her hair, feather-light, and she tilts her head, beckoning him for more, to be bolder, firmer. His hand sinks into her curls, his hold on her waist growing more sure. He leans his head upon hers, his nose brushing her temple, his breath tickling her scalp. She clutches his shoulders, inhaling his scent — all the familiar smells of the vineyard that speak of home mingled with that which is purely him.

She wants to hold him forever but voices in the corridor return them to reality. John withdraws, tendrils of her wet hair falling from his fingers. Their eyes lock and hold.

He hesitates, his head shifting towards hers, breath caressing her chin. She rises on her tiptoes, grazing her lips across his jaw, the lightest brush of stubble under her skin. His mouth turns to meet hers…

Somewhere in the house, a door slams. They startle apart, staring at each other.

"I should…" He gestures to the bathroom, slipping from her before she can catch him.

She exhales into the empty space he leaves. Her fingers rise to her lips and she glances at the closed door through which he disappeared, a tightening in her chest. Goosebumps shiver across her skin and she seeks her nightgown, cold now that he is gone.

:-x-:

On the other side of the door, John's fist trembles, knuckles-white around the handle, the shape of it cutting into his palm. His head sags against the wood, breath shuddering out of him, blood burning as he restrains from throwing open the door and sweeping Hero back into his arms, crushing her soft, red lips beneath his own. He wants her more than anything. He has since they first met and suspects she wants him too. But—

Don't toy with Hero. Don't awaken feelings in her you have no intention of reciprocating

He can see she is shaken and vulnerable. He will not take advantage of her as other men have. He will not inflict further hurt on her. He grapples against the desire pulsing through him and forces himself from the door, splashing cold water onto his face and breathing deeply.

He doesn't leave the bathroom until he is sure he can control himself. By then, Hero is curled into bed, asleep. He climbs in beside her as quietly as possible and, without allowing himself the chance to second-guess himself, places a kiss on her forehead, thumb sweeping across her eyebrow.

"Sweet dreams, Hero."

He rolls over and is half asleep himself when he feels her shift behind him, burying her face between his shoulder blades. He falls into slumber, no nightmares disturb him. His dreams are peaceful and full of her.