WARNING: This chapter contains themes of self harm/suicide/mental health issues/internalised homophobia

Yesterday I died, tomorrow's bleeding.
Fall into your sunlight.
The future's open wide, beyond believing.
To know why, hope dies.

The Colonel limped slowly to the window. His time confined to his bed had left him weak and aching, and, in a week he hadn't processed yet, quite a lot had happened.

The day came and went that Kessel stormed into the camp for Klink's seminar. The Kommandant himself had been irritating everyone by popping in and out of barracks two in fits of nervousness that he channelled into spot inspections, forcing Hogan to dive for the underground bunker every time the lookout spotted the Kommandant walking across the camp towards the barracks. The seminar was set up in the mess hall, as far away from Barracks 2 as possible, but it was a simple thing for Carter to 'accidentally' get caught with tools for digging and cutting by Kessel himself. Then Kessel, being the selfish and glory seeking man that he was, followed Carter back to the barracks in secret, thereby sealing his fate. He threatened Carter with torture and death if he didn't betray his crew, so Carter naturally 'caved' and agreed to take Kessel into the tunnels. They took him into their old disused tunnel 8, disconnected from the rest of the system. Happy that he had them, Kessel dragged Carter with him to the seminar, interrupting it with a triumphant cry of victory, and was followed by top German Brass to Barracks 6. Kessel was then made to look like a fool, as the other camp members had, of course, collapsed the tunnel in his absence, and this, coupled with the destruction of his own headquarters, led to him being dragged away under arrest and screaming in anger.

That was also the day that Hogan had turned up in 'surrender' at the camp boundaries, after Kessel's removal. Klink wouldn't admit it, but it was clear that he was happy the colonel was back and not dead as so many of the German soldiers stations at Kessel's HQ were. Hogan was questioned by the Kommandant for a good hour, and he had his answers prepared – they were about to move him when the headquarters blew up, which is why he survived. He wandered around for days, he was hungry, tired and cold, he didn't mean to come back, but when he had spotted the fence of Stalag 13 he decided it would be safer to give up.

Hogan had finally stepped out of the Kommandant's office, and the sun had peaked out from behind the clouds, bright rays cutting through the frigid air. The ground, covered as it was in a light sprinkling of powdery snow, gleamed at him and he felt almost removed from the moment. He walked back to his barracks in a daze, seeing his camp mates smiling and waving at him, replying to their jokes and jibes automatically, like nothing had changed, yet, everything had.

He opened the door into barracks two, and stopped, as his four men looked at him. He felt his eyes burn, and this time, he wasn't ashamed. The four of them stood slowly, and formed a line, behind which the rest of the men of barracks two followed. Then as a single unit, with Kinch's sharply barked order of 'Ten Hut!' they saluted him, the quiet filled with the snap of uniforms and the click of boots. Hogan felt the first genuine smile for the first time in three days and saluted them back. It was one thing to have been smuggled into the camp. It was another thing altogether to be back and reinstated as their senior officer, for however short a period. Then he was buried in hugs and welcomes and for a moment, it really was like nothing had changed.

But only for that moment.

Now, the Colonel took a sip from the coffee in his hand, his fresh, laundered uniform shirt and pants feeling crisp and foreign against his skin, after what was, in his mind, two decades of not wearing them. The coffee was as rubbish as he remembered, it, though, the thought bringing a small smile to his face as he imagined LeBeau's reaction to that. LeBeau, who was still young and energetic, not married to a beautiful girl and living in his own Bakery, Hogan had to remind himself, and he sighed, feeling older than he ever thought he could, stretched thin and fragile as if his soul had travelled the years his body didn't.

The Colonel caught his own reflection in the mirror across from his window, and for a moment he didn't recognise the eyes that looked back at him; shadowed with grief, shuttered with fear, fear of sleeping, of returning to the dreams that built a life he never lived. He wasn't the same man who had owned this office, only two weeks ago. The Colonel sat down heavily at the desk, placing the coffee mug back onto the table, his hands trembling heavily and his heart hammering in his chest.

Worse of all, is that his being alive meant that others were dead, or soon to die. He had given up names under torture. He had let his network down. His head dropped into his hands as a wave of guilt and sadness washed over him. He felt like he was drowning.

If only there was some precedent for this, something they could have been taught back at the flight academy.

The day after his return to the barracks, he had sat down his four main crew in his office after dinner, in the evening. He had spoken, uninterrupted, told them the story of how he had been dragged upstairs, separated from Newkirk, and sedated. Then he told them about the hallucinations, the living dreams. He carefully left out the name and disguised the gender of the person he was with, but the men had gasped in horror as he haltingly retold the life the gestapo had built in his mind, the stories of each of them, how they had finished up after the war. How they had gone on to live good and complete lives, how happy he had been. How now, in hindsight, Hogan could remember each excruciating time they had brought him out of the dream, the pain that wracked every molecule of his being and therefore, how easily they had drawn classified information from him, desperate as he was to return to the one he loved.

By the time Hogan had finished it had grown dark, and only the flickering light from a gas lamp on the table highlighted the pity and sorrow on his friends faces, the tear tracks hastily wiped away and pointedly ignored by the other men of the core team. He had quietly asked them to leave then, feeling like the hole in his chest had been ripped open with every word he forced himself to speak. But they deserved, at the very least, to know why he falsely laughed and joked with his camp mates as was expected of him, but couldn't raise so much as half a real smile around them. Why he still, an entire five days since his return, had not been able to look Peter in the eye.

Hogan took a deep breath in and let it out. Over the last five days, much of his time had been spent with a doctor over the radio, a kind woman with a soothing voice, who had only recently completed her training in psychiatry but had some understanding of the mental torture Gestapo were implementing and was more equipped to deal with the fallout.

He had told her everything, quite against his own volition once he had started speaking, and she had simply listened to his hushed and fervent whispers amongst the static, the poisonous thoughts that had haunted him since coming back-

I think I'm still in love with the person from those dreams.

I don't know how to command anyone anymore, when I have betrayed the people I swore to protect.

What I felt for that person was wrong, by every moral standard we hold today.

I remember everything, every detail, and they come back to me when I see my men in the barracks. Every time. Every life story they wrote for themselves, every happy ending they got, its all still with me, why won't it fade.

I don't deserve to keep breathing the same air of the hale and wholesome men who look up to me. I'm twisted and corrupted.

I should have died a happy man.

Tiger is dead, Henri, Otto, Stableman are dead because of me. I killed them.

I should have died too.

Why didn't I die?

And as the sun set on his fifth day of coming back to himself, Robert Hogan sat alone in his office, his coffee cooling as the glint of his shaving razor, sitting benignly under his mirror, caught his eye in the dying light of day.

A hundred miles away, one woman and three men whose only crime was to fight for their freedom, were set in front of the firing squad, and, holding hands, heard their last sounds - the boom of the Karabiner 98k rifles, and startled birds taking flight into an orange evening sky.

Losing what was found, a world so hollow.
Suspended in a compromise.
The silence of this sound, is soon to follow.
Somehow, sundown.

United Kingdom, London.
London Underground HQ
1400

"Sir, I've completed the psychological profile on Colonel Robert Hogan," Dr. Lucy Gentari said, walking into General O'Malley's office, her white shoes clicking on the tiles. She was dressed in white shirt and pale green skirt, with a dark jacket on top to combat the cold winds that howled above ground, and the cold dampness that lingered in these underground bunkers.

General O'Malley, commander of the SAS, and unofficial commander of the black operations squad was a short statured gentleman, with a portly figure but a kind face. In his dress uniform, he looked like he wasn't one to put up with anything short of the military discipline, but, with a man like Colonel Hogan under his command, unorthodox had just become a part of life for him and his team.

Now, however, he grimaced as he accepted the report from the young lady, "Thank you, Ms. Gentari, please have a seat," he indicated the chair across from his desk and waited for her to sit down before placing the file in front of him. Without opening it, he looked at her, "Thank you for looking after our Colonel Hogan the last week," she inclined her head as if to say it was her job to do so, and the General continued, "as you know, you're analysis is very important to us," he took a deep breath as if to steady himself, "so what I'm trying to ask is, how is my boy doing?"

She sat a little straighter and smoothed her skirt a little flatter, fiddling with her glasses for a moment, "I think he's no longer fit for command sir," she said finally and somewhat reluctantly,

The general's head dropped, disappointment filing him. He didn't want to pull the Colonel out of Germany any more than his men wanted him gone, 'What's the main problem?" the general asked, opening the file in front of him but not actually taking in any of the words, as he flicked through the pages of neatly typed reports, dated and signed for every conversation the doctor had had with Hogan.

"He's greatly distressed from the manipulations of the gestapo, and he's unable to sleep through the night, becoming more fatigued with every passing day. I think a part of him is too scared to fall asleep, given that everything that's hurting him now happened because he was unconscious and in a dream state. He feels guilt for the deaths of the resistance members and blames himself no matter how irrationally. He has lost a loved one in a way, even though its only in his mind. He's grieving but he also thinks its not right to grieve because the whole thing happened in his head. I have been trying to show him otherwise. Also…" she faded off and the General looked up,

"What?" he demanded, his mouth set in a firm line,

"I believe he's acutely suicidal and a danger to himself more than the others," Ms. Gentari looked no happier to be delivering the news that the general felt, but still his brow furrowed, as the thought of Hogan in a mental institution popped into his mind unbidden, and filled him with a sadness he couldn't name,

"Thank you," the general said finally, and as Ms. Gentari got up to leave he added, "and thank you for coming straight to me, I know its policy to report all suicidal urges straight to the MO."

Lucy stopped, nodding her understanding that the Colonel was more than a subordinate to the general. She bit the inside of her lip as the general watched her and then said, "He's a good man, who's been through something no one else has survived, sir," Before the General could sputter out an irritated reply that he knew what kind of man Hogan was, thank you very much, she continued, "he's hurting, and he's damaged, but I think he loves his men more than his own life, and bringing him back here and locking him up, away from them, is going to do more harm than good,"

The general gaped at the young woman who then flushed at her own forwardness, but maintained eye contact with him, determined to get her message through. Seemingly finished with what she wanted to say then, she pulled her coat tighter around herself and walked out primly.

The general stared after her for a few more minutes before deflating at his desk and rubbing a hand against his forehead. This situation was becoming more and more complicated by the day. The initial orders to bring Hogan home still stood, and to the general they made perfect sense. The man had done his duty, he would come home, be honoured with a promotion, then take a desk job here, in London, until the end of the war. It's not a bad fate for any man, and a general's life is a damn good reward for the Colonel that helped more than a thousand downed fliers find their way back home.

However, as the general skimmed through the report and words like 'self-loathing', 'fear', 'grief', and 'self-mutilation or harm' kept filtering up to him he had to admit that if he brought Hogan here and he tried to hurt himself, it would all be over for the Colonel.

Battle-weariness they would say, Battle-shock others would agree, and the brilliant mind of the Colonel would be drugged and locked up in a padded room, never to wear a uniform again, never mind command a force as formidable as his Heroes. The general frowned again. No, he couldn't let that happen,

"Private!" he called, and a young lad burst through the door, almost tripping over himself in the hurry he was in,

'Sir?" he asked,

"Get me command on the phone," The general got to his feet. No, he was not going to abandon the colonel.

And I've lost who I am, and I can't understand.
Why my heart is so broken, rejecting your love.
Without, love gone wrong, lifeless words carry on.
But I know, all I know, is that the end's beginning

Germany, Hammelburg
Stalag 13

Kinch grimaced as he lost another round of gin to Newkirk, but the English corporal's celebration was only half-hearted as he collected the loot he had won with a "Gotcha again, Kinch me old mate," and a flourish of the cards in his hand.

They both looked up as Carter came through the door and sat down next to them, a smile on his face, flushed a little from being outside in the cold.

"I made him a present!" Carter said immediately, showing the two of them what he was holding in his hand. It was a beautiful carving of the Colonel's house back in the States, the one that Hogan had shown them when his mother had sent him a picture with a new paint job on the outside. The carving was about the size of a Carter's hand and was lightly painted to match the light blue that Hogan's mother had chosen. Newkirk really smiled then,

"Well done, it's lovely work, Andrew!" he said, clapping Carter on the shoulder as Kinch took it to inspect it closer. It was a front view of the house, and it was highly detailed, down to the last little leaf on the ground. Carter ducked his head in embarrassment as he was wont to do when any praise came his way,

"Aw thanks guys," he chuckled, and Kinch smiled too, "I think you should give it to him Peter," Carter added, and Newkirk looked surprised, his hands stilling as they shuffled the cards,

"You made it!" Newkirk exclaimed, confused but touched, "you should take the credit for it!"

"Oh, its got my name on the back, see," Carter flipped the house around and on the flat back was another small and delicate carving, reading To my colonel, we missed you. From Carter, "it's just you've always been his favourite," Newkirk was about to protest but Kinch was nodding as Carter continued, "you've always been the one he comes to for a serious talk, the one who he relies on for anything secret, you're also the one he trusts with his precious hat when he goes on missions" Carter finished and Newkirk was already too stunned to reply, when Kinch added wryly, "you're also the only one he listens to when he's mad," and all of them laughed in earnest that time. Newkirk looked back at the little engraving from Carter, lying in Kinch's hand. It was such a simple yet true message, and he knew the Colonel would appreciate it.

Newkirk's smiled faded slightly as he reflected on the last couple of days. He tried not to think of the evening that the Colonel told them the whole story. It hurt too much to see the love and longing buried deep within the Colonel's soul, watching him tell the story like it wasn't costing him pieces of himself. It was horrible to watch, but Newkirk couldn't have left the room even had he tried.

The guv' had then been withdrawn and quiet in the following days. Coming out of his room at mealtimes only, he still interacted with the barracks, still the centre of attention whether he liked it or not. He let LeBeau fuss over his food and fix his collar and sat and spoke patiently as Kinch asked for advice on the running of the camp, and re-bandaged some of the bigger cuts and scratches on his body. He smiled a true smile that lit his eyes a little bit when Carter kept bringing him his favourite chocolates, or bits of cheese, making sacrifices from his own stores, or just doing something so innocently Carter. Yet, he hadn't said so much as a word to Newkirk, not even a glance of old, eyes filled with the promise of mischief or adventure. Now Newkirk hadn't looked into those brown eyes for more than two weeks, and he missed it, missed it like he was missing a limb.

He missed the Colonel's casual touches, and ever emanating warmth, and the fire it stoked in his own chest with every bit of attention he got from the Colonel. He missed an arm slung around his shoulder, and a jibe about Newkirk's criminal tendencies softened with a gentle smile and nudge to the ribs.

Additionally, the Colonel had never showed outwardly his hatred of the cold, always allowing his men to sit as close as possible to the heater, giving his gloves to people whose fingers were going blue. Now, he trembled almost imperceptibly in the cool air of the barracks, and didn't stop people who offered him their scarves, gloves and extra hats. The others seemed pleased with the Colonel's progress, but Newkirk new something was wrong.

Maybe you're wrong to want all his behaviour to be the same. Maybe you're wrong to want his attention the way it used to be, Newkirk thought as LeBeau came into the barrack and also admired Carter's handiwork, back from a raid of the German kitchen for better food than the scraps they were usually given. But Newkirk had no answers for what was right or wrong anymore. They weren't perfect the way they used to be, but he was determined that the little time they had left with their colonel was going to be good.

"Alright then," Newkirk said, shaking his thoughts away by standing up, "Give it here and I'll go take it to him," LeBeau handed it over and Newkirk started towards the office.

By unanimous understanding, it was decided that the Colonel was not to be overwhelmed with people, especially in confined spaces. At most, when he was in the office, only one person should visit him at a time. So, Newkirk knocked on the door himself and opened it, only for his heart to drop somewhere around his feet as he took in the sight in front of him.

Stepping into the room quickly, Newkirk closed the door behind him, shutting out the sounds of the men, instead leaving only his own breathing and Hogan's in the darkening room.

The man was sitting there, his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, his eyes fixed on the razor that he was holding in his right hand, sliding his thumb up and down the blade, slowly, almost delicately, contemplatively.

Newkirk felt like the air in the barracks had disappeared completely, until he realised he was holding his breath and forced himself to breathe again,

"Hey there Colonel," he said softly, slowly, like you would to a frightened animal.

Only the Colonel didn't look frightened. He looked the calmest he'd been in days as he raised his eyes to look into his corporal's terrified ones,

"Hi Peter," he said. Newkirk felt like ice was spreading from his feet and up into his legs, then his torso. He couldn't think.

"What do you have there?" Newkirk heard himself ask, his own heart pounding in his ears, as if reminding him that a life might be in the balance now, and life can disappear very quickly.

The colonel seemed to consider the request. He looked down, and for a moment there was a puzzled look on his face, as if he wasn't sure how he ended up with a razor in his hands,

"A shaving razor," he answered simply instead, looking back up to Newkirk, then back down to the razor, once again running his finger up and down the blunt side of the blade.

The corporal carefully placed the little carving of the house into his pocket and forced himself to walk forward. Nothing and no one could have prepared him for this.

He'd had a cousin once, who hung herself after her boyfriend left her. And it had left her family broken ever since. Colonel Hogan had a family, we're his family, Newkirk thought frantically, as he took careful steps over to the stool, which sat right next to Hogan, behind his desk. The evening light was fading, and the room grew darker, but Newkirk felt as if the razor was beginning to emit light, the way it caught those last rays and bounced them around the room. It was a baleful presence that Newkirk wanted to grab and throw out the window.

"Do you know…" Hogan began quietly but stopped once more to angle the razor, so a little patch of sunlight landed on Newkirk's chest as he settled himself on the stool opposite the Colonel. The corporal looked down, wondering if the colonel could hear his thundering heart, "who it was...that I fell in love with, Peter?" the Colonel completed, pronouncing each word slowly,

It took Newkirk a moment to process the question, "who?" he asked eventually, his voice dropping to a whisper. For a moment he thought the colonel might not have heard him. Silence hung heavy in the cabin, as dust motes danced in the light, disturbed by their breathing and the muted sounds of the barracks behind them went on. The Colonel finally looked up, and away from the dangerous thing in his hands and said,

"You."

A moment passed in utter stillness. Even the muted noise from the barracks faded from their perception.

Newkirk's vision started to go blurry for one terrifying moment, and then he realised he was holding his breath again. He sucked in a lungful of air but couldn't bring himself to move away from the colonel, and still felt like he wasn't getting enough oxygen. That answer didn't make sense. Newkirk tried to communicate that,

'Sir-no-I-you-must be confused-" he finally managed to stutter out, but the Colonel laughed, and Newkirk's blood froze in his veins at the sardonic, almost cold nature to the laugh, so unlike the Colonel he had come to know, and yes, now he could certainly admit it, love,

"Yeah I thought so too," the Colonel said, his voice flat but his eyes showing the first fire Newkirk had seen in them since the Colonel returned to the camp, "I thought it was brotherly love, I thought it was familial love. Like the way I love all my men, the way I love Kinch, and LeBeau and Carter," he looked down and Newkirk followed his gaze, a noise of distress leaving him involuntarily as he saw the blood. His hands made an aborted movement to grab the Colonel but unsure as he was, they didn't actually make contact. The man in question had been gripping the blade while he talked, and there was a line of scarlet on his palm now, the silver of the blade glistening red instead,

"Colonel," Newkirk breathed, "Rob," he said instead, and the Colonel's eyes snapped back up to his, anger and loss and heartbreak stretching across that little distance, and stabbing Newkirk somewhere between his ribs,

"He-you called me that all the time…guvnor, you'd say, then you…" the Colonel swallowed but this time didn't break eye contact, "you'd kiss me and tell me I'd always be your commander.'

"You are my commander," Newkirk breathed after a beat, and Hogan's eyes fell closed, his head dropping,

"Don't," he pleaded, his voice a whisper too now, and Peter couldn't stop himself, he dropped to his knees at the Colonel's feet in an attempt to make eye contact, and held his wrists gently, not enough to restrain him, just enough to show the Colonel he was there. The man was shaking again, the tremors gentle,

"Don't what? Don't tell you that I need you? That you're the only commander who's ever cared, who's helped me become a better soldier, a better man, dammit, Rob," he said, anger colouring his words now, at the very thought of this man leaving them for good. London was reachable by mail and radio. Death was not.

Hogan's eyes remained closed, but his grip of the razor became slacker, "I'm not strong enough," he whispered to his chest,

"Yes, you are!" Newkirk urged, his voice still hushed, his head tilted up to look at the Colonel, "open your eyes and look at me," he ordered, his voice stronger than he felt. To his amazement, the Colonel did, and the longing in them nearly had Newkirk let go of the Colonel's wrists in surprise. But he could feel this was a pivotal moment. That he needed to stay exactly where he was.

For better or worse now, he was in this with the Colonel, and he was not going to lose him again.

"No, you don't-you don't understand, I'm not strong enough," the Colonel said, "I can't…I can't have you only to lose you. I can't even look at you-" he broke off again, closing his eyes as if willing Newkirk to go away. He sucked in a ragged breath and Newkirk's grip increased on the Colonel's wrists, "They're going to take me away from here, from you, and I can't…If anyone else had walked in, if one of the others…I would have just gone ahead and-" he stopped for another shaky breath and Newkirk's gripped tightened again, to what he peripherally thought might bruise the colonel, but the implications of that sentence was too much to bear. Beneath his fingers, Hogan's pulse was beating wildly, as if it too, was aware that it could have stopped at any moment,

"Look your fill," Newkirk croaked, his voice hoarse with emotion, unsaid words, years of admiration, awe and respect, coalescing into a love of sorts. A love that had potential, "I'm going nowhere guv'," at that Hogan made a pained sound and the razor fell to the floor with a clatter and ringing clang, as his arms went around newkirk's shoulder's instead and his head fell forward, until his forehead was resting against Newkirk's. It was almost too much again for the corporal. He was overwhelmed by the closeness, and not ready for any of this, but he forced himself to stay calm, and the devil himself could not have moved him from that spot if this is what his Colonel needed.

They stayed there for an interminable time, breathing the same air until Newkirk's knees were on fire, his thighs trembling with the effort of holding the position. His grip had loosened on Hogan's wrists, and instead were now loosely holding his arms, and the Colonel had settled both his hands warmly against the corporals back. Both their breaths had settled into a rhythm, in tandem.

It was the most peaceful moment Newkirk remembered for more than a month. For the first time since his Colonel, no, his friend, had come back, their interaction wasn't laced with that feeling of wrongness, the off-kilter undercurrent that had kept Newkirk on edge for five days.

"Are your legs doing okay?" the quiet question startled Newkirk, and he opened eyes he didn't remember closing, to look into those brown pools of emotion he didn't know he missed,

"Yeah-" he had to clear his throat as his voice had also decided to fail him, " 'm fine," he finished. Slowly, the colonel drew back to sit straight in his seat, leaving a vacuum of cold air that Newkirk had a strange and new urge to follow back towards the Colonel,

"You always lie to me about the extent of your injuries," the Colonel said, still solemn, looking down at Newkirk from his seated height, and it took a moment for Newkirk to register the now foreign sound of amusement and exasperation, muted though they were, that the Colonel kept in his tone especially for him,

"No, I don't" he replied stubbornly, but also found that he couldn't stand, "though…I would not mind a hand up," The Colonel reached out his left hand and Newkirk took it, rising with a groan to standing height, shorter than the colonel, but not by much. He stumbled and nearly fell over were it not for the steadying hands on his waist.

For a moment the two men stood in their somewhat awkward embrace before the Colonel gently let go, giving Newkirk's legs plenty of warning to take over the role of keeping him standing, and sunk back down in the chair. Following his lead, Newkirk also sat down on the stool, wincing as his muscles protested.

There was silence again as the two men just looked at each other.

"You don't have to do this," The Colonel finally said, looking down at his palm, the blood turned darker in the time he let it bleed and then clot freely. Newkirk frowned, but before he could reply the colonel continued, "What I feel for you, it's not natural, its not right. I know that," he sounded like he was repeating facts from a textbook, as if to remind himself, "I can't help it though. Its probably for the best I'll be going back to England and then the States. I'll stay at my parents. I'll get the help I need, Peter, there are plenty of cures for this…state of mind," Hogan finished. Newkirk was gaping at him now. He knew, of course, what the Colonel was talking about,

"Have you told anyone else?" Newkirk asked, his voice harsher than he meant it to be and the Colonel winced, but answered,

"No-one. I just make it sound like it was a-a girl," he managed a small smile, "I won't ever drag your name through the mud like that," he added, a look of determination on his face suggesting that he was completely serious. Newkirk frowned again, and Hogan looked away, and the corporal realised he was making it look like he agreed with the Colonel's new plan,

So, he said simply, "No," and the Colonel raised his head to look up at his corporal, only the searchlights now providing light in the darkened cabin,

"What?" the colonel managed, as if he fully expected Newkirk to condemn him as a pervert and have nothing more to do with him,

"No, you're not leaving me, no you're not going to the states for their so called 'cures', which I've bloody well heard of and they're rubbish, and no, I'm not doing anything I don't want to," Newkirk crossed his arms over his chest to finish, as if daring the Colonel to disagree. Finally, it seems like the Colonel had found something to talk about after almost a week of silence with corporal,

"You don't understand what you're saying," his voice cracked on the last word, leaning forward in his chair, a sharp pain was radiating up his right hand as he gripped the arm in a vice-like hold, "you don't know what I wanted – what I want do with you-"

"I'll have you know I'm not some blushing virgin," Newkirk shot back, his earlier gentleness forgotten as, despite his strong words, he blushed heatedly in the dim light, knowing that the Colonel saw exactly how red his cheeks were when the searchlights made another pass and bathed the room in brilliant white light for a moment. His response, had however, seemed to have shut down any response the Colonel could have thought of, so he continued before he lost his nerve, "and I-I don't know nothin' about-about that kind of-of relations, I don't even know how I feel about this, but its not what you think. I love y-love the things you do for this camp," he finished somewhat lamely, having changed his initial phrase of 'I love you' to something a little bit safer. And now his heart was in his throat, as he sat there, waiting for the Colonel's response.

They stared at each other for what seemed forever, until the Colonel looked away to the window, outside which they could hear the soldiers coming in from the patrols outside the fence and the 6 pm change of guard, "I love you," he said simply, still not looking at the corporal, though Newkirk was sure the Colonel heard him take a sharp breath in to hear the Colonel say it so bluntly, "I can't change that. I can't erase a life lived with someone. I can't expect you to carry that burden the whole time I'm here," the colonel turned back to Newkirk and shook his head, "you don't feel the same, you didn't before this whole mess, and you don't now. You're saying what you're feeling in this moment, and I needed that, Peter. I needed you so desperately tonight, and you came through for me," the raw emotion in those words had Newkirk reaching out and taking Hogan's uninjured hand in his. A foreign movement to him, yes, but somehow, altogether right, Newkirk thought. Hogan looked down at their joined hands in wonder, "you are an incredible man, with a kind heart, but I cannot in good conscience take you down with me," the Colonel looked back up, "I didn't think I could even look at you as I waited for my removal to England, but you've given me something so precious, something that I will carry for the rest of my life,"

Newkirk moved then, and hugged the Colonel. His sweet, unassuming, intelligent, wonderful, caring Robert E. Hogan, who never asked for more than he could give, and even when he needed something, always looked to another person's comfort first.

It was an awkward hug, Newkirk leaning down into a sitting Hogan, but the Colonel hugged back just as fiercely, and Newkirk knew he'd have blood stains all over his uniform, but he didn't care,

"Thank you Peter," Hogan breathed, as if coming to terms with this as his last moment of happiness. Newkirk drew back and guided Hogan to stand. The colonel came willingly, pliant, as if he would not have denied Newkirk anything in that moment,

"You're not leaving," Newkirk said, and Hogan took a breath to argue, but the corporal cut him off with a look, "you're not leaving, because you're right. You can't remove or hide a lifetime lived with someone else, and I will never be what he was because I'm not him," for a moment Hogan looked pained, but seemed to push past it so that he could be with this Peter, in the here and now, "I'm not," Newkirk repeated again, "and I don't want to be, because I'm me, and you're you and that's how it's been since we got into this ruddy mess of a war that was meant to send us home at bloody Christmas. I don't want it any other way, guv'. I'm sticking right beside you an'…an' we're going to build a new life, new memories," Newkirk swallowed, knowing the weight of what he was about to say, "we're going to build a new relationship together, and you're never leaving me again, if I have to swim to England and get them to change the orders meself,"

For a mad moment Newkirk thought Hogan might kiss him, and he nearly panicked and backed away, but then the intent left the Colonel's eyes and he nodded instead. He let go of Newkirk's hands and walked over to the sink, where he kept his first aid kit, seeming to gather himself as he went.

Methodically, he washed his right hand under the tap, as Newkirk watched, and then turned to his corporal, "will you bandage my hand for me? I seemed to have…accidentally cut myself on a spare razor that was floating around in my duffle bag," he asked, his voice and his playful lilt shadowing the words a four-week younger Hogan might have once said. Newkirk took a deep breath.

This was going to be a long road, but they were going to walk it together,

"Of course, guv', sit on this stool here, and I'll make it right as rain" Newkirk smiled as he moved forward, and so did Hogan, as the razor lay harmlessly under the desk, forgotten.

Who I am from the start
Take me home to my heart.
Let me go and I will run
I will not be silent.

And so, life, as it must, went on.

That very night, Hogan came out for dinner and made a real effort to forget the dinners he used to have with his now gone partner, and instead focused on the Peter who was sitting across from him, looking brilliant despite the oversized shirt he had to borrow from Kinch because his was stained with blood. The men had exclaimed in horror when they had seen the blood, but Hogan had explained it away as an I-cut-myself-and-fell-on-Peter story that every mostly bought, and then forgot about as the Colonel participated in the chatter around the table. If his eyes every so often drifted towards a pair of brilliant blue ones, no-one noticed.

The week saw itself out with a call from England announcing that the Colonel was to stay in the camp, but no missions were to be organised for the next 6 weeks, to give the Colonel and his team a chance to heal, and the Colonel had to have daily radio appointments with doctor Gentari. No one was going to complain, though the boredom already setting in saw Carter set a trap for Shulz that ended with uproarious laughter on both sides of the war. Kinch end up with a few extra sales of radios to the German soldiers, which brought them real bread and butter for breakfast one morning, courtesy of a deliriously happy LeBeau. News also reached them that week of a certain Rudolph who had made it safely to England and was now working to teach British soldiers and spies German at the London HQ and other training centres across England. Additionally, as a thank you for the beautifully carved house that Newkirk finally got around to giving the Colonel, Carter was granted the privilege of no KP all week, and he lorded it over LeBeau so much, the leftovers of one lunch ended up right in his bed.

The next week saw the return of the colonel's nightmares, as exhaustion finally forced him to sleep, waking the entire barracks up with screams that echoed and chilled them, until Newkirk ran in to wake the Colonel, and stayed sitting on the floor next to the bottom bunk, one hand on his arm. The two of them fell asleep together on many nights such as those, as the corporal was found still sitting on the ground most mornings that week. The colonel's moods were up and down, but the men were there, always there. Newkirk had never told anyone about the razor incident, but he did tell them that the Colonel needed to never be alone, and they took him at his word.

Kommandant Klink got a brand-new car, a personal one, as a gift from an old uncle. The red automobile shone in the sun and everyone gathered around to admire it. The Kommandant even let Hogan take it for a little spin, with him in the passenger seat of course, under the guise of 'punishment' for insubordination, turning him into a chauffeur around camp. Though, if he were being honest, Klink had missed the Colonel's insubordination, and was genuinely disturbed to see the dark circles under the man's eyes. He wasn't any less furious when the car was stolen by a lady friend (AKA underground spy) that the Colonel and company may or may not have tipped off about though, and punished the entire camp with half rations of bread, though he had no proof it was them.

Meanwhile, LeBeau had found a run-away chicken caught in the fence around camp, and with Newkirk's help, managed to sneak it into the Barracks, hopefully for a delicious chicken stew. Unfortunately, that was also when Carter had found out, and a long and drawn out argument ensued, solved only when the Colonel arrived to tell them the chicken was the property of the cabin, and he was its commander, therefore the chicken would stay alive. If he made Carter perk up like a happy golden retriever, that was the Colonel's joy to keep.

The razor was still in the Colonel's room. He had cleaned it, and it sat under his sink. He knew Newkirk didn't like it, knew that the corporal kept throwing what he thought were subtle looks at it, but he wouldn't touch it again, except to shave his face. The first week afterwards, he contemplated the scar on his palm, and wondered what if it had been just a couple of centimetres higher… now, though, when he woke up in the morning and Peter was there, still there despite all, he'd live a thousand more years if it meant staying with him a second longer. This time though, it was a more tangible Peter, a Peter that was infinitely more multifaceted than the dream he lived with. One whose eyes held a different kind of light, but one that was meant for him all the same.

The next week, an allied raid accidentally hit the camp in the day, and Hogan was terrified, absolutely terrified as the camp ran for cover, because he couldn't find Peter. He searched the faces of his men frantically, knew he needed to be giving more direction to the screaming mob, but he couldn't find Peter! At last he spotted a blue coat disappearing into the Barracks just as a shell dropped close enough to throw the Colonel to the ground. Disoriented, he didn't know how long he was lying there until he was dragged up and into a building, through one door, and then another, and then he was smothered in a hug so tight he was surprised he could breathe through it. Words, fervently muttered against of soft skin of his neck, just below his ear, finally filtered through the ringing in his ears after another minute or so, "…thank god you're safe, thank you, thank you, thank you, my god, please don't go, don't ever, thank you, thank you, thank you," Newkirk was muttering under his breath, still holding onto the Colonel in the office/living space that the Colonel was once again beginning to feel was a home. A feeling of grateful love washed over the Colonel and he kept holding onto the corporal until they both stopped shaking, and the sound of an increasing number of voices outside the little room made them pull apart. It was getting harder and harder for the Colonel not to close the little distance between them with his lips, but he had Newkirk's friendship, and he was maybe even beginning to believe the corporal's claims of love. He didn't want to lose that.

That same week, Carter got shot in the abdomen by a trigger-happy guard and Hogan forgot for the first time, his own pain, and focused solely on his sergeant. He stayed by his bed and nursed Carter through the fever that developed within the day, while Kinch argued strongly in the Kommandant's office for that officer to be transferred. After all in terms of camp duties, Carter was well known for his handiness – when they weren't purposely trying to sabotage the Germans anyway. That week also brought one of the worse depressive episodes Hogan had since Newkirk had first saved him, and if it hadn't been for the corporal's ever enduring presence, Hogan might not have made it through. Guilt that he hadn't been a better leader to prevent this injury, horror at the thought of losing one of his men, anger that this had to happen in the first place all contributed to the maelstrom of emotions that had him stoically working Carter through his fever until it broke, speaking only when spoken to and laughing seldom few times, dreaming every night of Tiger and the other agents whose blood he still sometimes saw on his own hands, in vivid delusions that hit him whenever he was sometimes alone in his room.

It was another week before Carter could walk out of bed and the Colonel felt a smile on his face once more as he watched Newkirk fuss over Andrew ("you're going to get cold only using one blanket, mate, here, take mine"), and then pretend like he didn't care, and just didn't want Carter inconveniencing them any more ("get out of me bunk Carter, I need that place for these uniforms I'm patching"). Kinch went out of his way to rig up a headphone system so Carter could listen to some music from BBC radio while lying in bed and LeBeau made an approximation of cheesy bread that Carter loved entirely, and it was the first full meal he had managed to stomach since the injury.

LeBeau fell in love the next week, with a beautiful girl who turned out to be Helga's sister, who had come to stay at the camp. Hogan put on a good show for the camp, but even as he did all the right things and said all the right things to Helga and her pretty sister, he admired Newkirk in the server's uniform that Klink had his 'waiters' wear for the little party in the Kommandantur. The white uniform fit Newkirk's form snugly, and the heat in the Colonel's belly was quickly turned onto the pretty lady on his arm before he did something foolish and swept Newkirk away into one of the private rooms. This would also have been a perfect time to go looking for information within the Kommandantur and let his men cause a little distraction, but orders were orders and he was still not allowed to do anything, none of them were, for another two weeks. The itch for adventure was starting to settle under his skin, and he knew Newkirk could feel it too.

Therefore when a new general turned up in camp, carrying with him a large, locked briefcase, it was Newkirk that suggested they just a little mission, a little trial run now they were all back and relatively healthy (Hogan had needed a long talk with doctor Gentari the day before as he once again struggled with guilt and anxiety, the fatigue from long sleepless nights was starting to wear his stamina thin, and Carter still couldn't sit up on his own or walk very far, but they were both making progress). "We can sneak in there, grab those documents with a little of my light-fingered touch, get a little photo action going, and have something to show London we're ready to be Hogan's heroes again!" Newkirk said, winking at the Colonel and making the officer's stomach do a back flip of want at the cheekiness of it before he steadied himself in the moment and nodded his agreement. Carter's protests aside ("I want to come, I can walk, I swear), the others agreed that Newkirk and Hogan should go tonight, Hogan on lookout, Newkirk on the opening and photographing. Sneaking out of the barracks covered in black grease brought back memories for both of them. Hogan had to stop as his own screams, Tiger's screams, and Peter's screams echoed through his mind unbidden and devastatingly real to him. Then Newkirk reached over and took Hogan's hand in the dark against the barracks wall, and their eyes met in the low reflections from the searchlights overhead, and it was okay again, Hogan could go on. They got the photos, and they made it back. If Hogan's hands shook in a way they never did, as they quickly washed and undressed, and if Newkirk immediately went into the officer's cabin with Hogan once they were changed, no one said anything, and no one was surprised the next morning, to find Newkirk on the floor, his head pillowed on the Colonel's shoulder.

The next week, doctor Gentari told the Colonel he was doing very well, and that she was going to clear him for duty this week. Missions could resume as per normal. She also told him that he could call her anytime and she would be ready to listen to him, but he was healing as well as could be expected. He didn't tell her that he was healing because Peter was taking the fractured pieces of his heart and with his deft ability, sewing them together, not to make something brand new, but something different and equally beautiful.

The clearance brought joy to Hogan and when he told Newkirk, quietly folding laundry in the officer's cabin one sunny evening, watching another sunset, the corporal smiled, leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on the Colonel's lips, so light and brief it might not have even happened, were it not for the light blush across the corporals' cheeks as he went back to inspection and folding of the socks. Hogan felt himself blushing too, and it was like a little pilot light was lit in the centre of his chest, a light fed by the love he now received.

The next week, they were officially back on duty, and Carter still had to stay in the barracks, healing but still with too fresh a wound to be gallivanting all over the countryside, as Hogan put it.

"Now I know how you felt back when we had to go and get the Colonel, Peter, and you had to stay behind," he pouted,

"It's alright, Andrew mate, we're never getting separated again," Newkirk replied, punching the younger sergeant lightly on the arm, "We'll be back,"

"Yes, we will," The Colonel asserted, the light in his eyes now happy and relaxed in a way it hadn't been for the last month,

"Well you better. The Kommandant want someone to clean out the mess hall tomorrow and my belly still hurts," he said and LeBeau laughed,

"Mon Frere, tomorrow, your belly hurts, but when you want to go on missions with us, its fine?" Carter made a face like he had sucked a lemon and the tunnel echoed with laughter as Kinch, LeBeau, Newkirk and Hogan made their way to the ladder,

"Good luck!" Carter called, and watched his team, and his family, leave.

They did come back, victorious from blowing up their first rail line in almost a month and a half. They celebrated together in the tunnels, Carter having stayed up for them, putting coffee and tea on the minute they walked back into the tunnels, all of them a little dirty, and a little tired, but exhilarated from the thrill of the cause, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.

"To Hogan's Heroes!" Kinch toasted, "May we never run out of coffee!"

"Oui, Oui!" LeBeau agreed and they laughed again, and drank deeply from the steaming mugs, warming their frozen hands. Hogan looked around at their happy faces and felt another piece that had fallen out through his ordeal finally settle back into place. Family was what got him through the first couple weeks, and family was what was going to get him out of his struggle, and out of this war. His eyes, as always, lingered on Newkirk, and he felt no shame, no guilt and no worry as Newkirk looked back at him and smiled happily.

There was a long road they both had to walk. Hogan still had nightmares, and only Newkirk's presence ever really brought him sleep. Maybe this week, he could make it so that Newkirk moved into the top spare bunk in the room with him, so he could be there all the time. None of his men would begrudge him that much, the corporal could hardly sleep on the floor for the rest of the war.

Hogan still struggled some days, still had flashes of memory of what was, but now, what is eclipsed it easier with every passing day.

What he had, was a team he trusted, and cared for. What he had, was a job he loved, and mission he still believed in with all his heart.

What they all had, was a time, when love had indeed conquered all.

All this time spent in vain, wasted years, wasted gain.
All is lost, hope remains, and this war's not over.
There's a light, there's the sun, taking all shattered ones.
To the place we belong, and his love will conquer all.

Guys I don't even know what to say other thank, thank, thank you! Thank you for your beautiful reviews (especially Summertime_Poet) which kept me motivated to keep writing. Thank you for taking the time to read and to leave kudos. You are an amazing audience, and I only hope I've done justice with this final chapter, and brought out character's development and personal journeys to an appropriate close.

Its not the end for these guys, but a sequel is a long way away, and if it's multi-chaptered, I have no desire to publish before writing the entire thing so I never leave anyone waiting this long.

Also all the lyrics in italics are from Shattered by Trading Yesterday, which gave me the idea for the name of this fic :)

I've had an awesome time writing this, hope you've enjoyed the rollercoaster.

Signing off
Aza
xx