a/n:
I kept thinking of Captain America whenever someone called Alfred "Captain." I guess I've been spending too much time in other fandoms. ; w ;

-unedited
-possibly inaccurate stuff here
Also, um yes I'm alive, just swamped by other fics and final exams ; m ;
/throws and flees/

Halo

There is a picture in his pocket - one that he has memorized to the point that he can see it when he closes his eyelids. It's not a photograph of a mother or a father or something of great importance: It is simply a close up of a lily, white and pink and speckled with yellow. He found it, he thinks, on the floor of a nameless bunk in a nameless camp, dusted with dirt from the boots that had trodden over it.

Whenever he looks at it, the sensation of warmth seeping past his blood, skin, and bones never fails to arrive. It's illogical, really, the way something so small and insignificant can almost bring tears to his eyes.

Perhaps it reminds him of home, of the father his father could have been, of the man he could have been. Perhaps it stirs memories long-since tucked away into the back of his mind, memories of hot summer days and restless nights.

But he's a soldier - dirt and grime, blood and rain, hand clenched around the cold metal of a rifle, back pressed against the wall of the trench, heart racing with the all too familiar fear of death - and he's learned not to question where such miracles could come from.

"You okay?" Someone nudges his arm.

Has he been idle for long? Alfred nods mindlessly, before realizing that he's speaking to Matthew, and Matthew is one of those rare few that can see right through him. He adds, for the sake of verbal confirmation, "I'm fine, Matt, stop worrying about me and worry about yourself - oh, you might want to stay low, by the way."

Matthew rolls his eyes, but does crouch down, huddled against the side of the trench and more-or-less pressing himself into Alfred's shoulders. A millisecond later, a bullet whizzes past their heads, and if Matthew had moved any slower, he wouldn't have been breathing anymore.

"You're welcome," Alfred says smugly.

"Keep focus, Captain."

Alfred takes the crumpled picture out, presses it against chapped lips, and keeps it clenched in his hand as he turns, rising back above ground level and taking aim with his gun.

. . .

It's a peculiar situation in which they first meet, for a lack of a better description: Alfred is on his back, dazed, head aching painfully. His mouth is dribbling blood from a lost tooth, his arm's twisted at an unnatural angle, and he thinks that something's wrong with his leg, too. (He isn't sure. It hurts his neck to look down.) He doesn't know how long he's been laying there and has no way of knowing; all he can see is the ironically bright blue sky; all he can hear is a dull ringing. He wouldn't be surprised if his eardrums were damaged - grenades were nasty business like that.

The pain is ridiculously, well, painful, but then Alfred remembers that there were other men too, other men who didn't scramble out of the trench in time, other men who were shot down by snipers as soon as they revealed themselves. He forces himself to suck it up, because if compared to those other man, he would have been fucking dandy.

But it really is difficult to put something out of your mind when something keeps shoving it back in. The throbbing is persistent. He clenches his teeth and tries to stay still, just in case the sniping bastard up there is still looking for movement.

A few moments later, he feels someone grab his forearm. "Jones," says a voice, and Alfred has to pry his eyes open.

He slurs, "Don' let 'em get'cha with those gr'nades, hurts like a bitch-"

The voice mutters some angry curses - French, Alfred recognizes hazily - before the hands move underneath his arms and he's being pulled away. "Battle's nearly over, Captain - I'm going to get you fixed up, okay?"

"Okay." Alfred feels his eyelids drooping, only to shoot back open when he feels a harsh slap across his cheek.

"Sorry," comes the immediate apology, with genuine concern in that soft voice. "You have to stay awake, though."

Alfred cracks a laugh and almost chokes on his own blood.

. . .

"How're you feeling, Captain?"

The questions are coming even before he's wide awake. Alfred wonders how they can even tell he's conscious. "I don't hurt anymore," he answers, surprised by the stability of his own voice. When he opens his eyes, he sees a medic standing beside his bed, taking notes.

He grins, despite his chapped lips, when he recognizes the man to be Arthur.

"It's not even halfway through the week and it's already your second time in here," the Englishman remarks with minimal sympathy. "You should take better care of yourself."

Alfred begins to mindlessly hum a nameless tune.

"What was it this time?"

He pauses. Smiles a bit. "Grenade."

"For the Queen's sake," Arthur mutters sharply as he prods the heavy bandages around Alfred's leg. "You really need to take better care of yourself."

Alfred might have retorted with something snappy, but then a third party pulls the curtains back and steps into the small space - Alfred recognizes the man, although no name comes to mind. (He's always been like that: Great at facial recognition, but awful with information.)

"How's he doing, Mr. Kirkland?" the man sounds somewhat worried. He's wearing a white cotton shirt that does nothing to hide the bandage on his midsection, darkened with blood.

"You can just ask me, you know," Alfred pipes up with a small wave of his hand.

They ignore him.

"Better than when you first brought him in, all beat up and bloody," Arthur responds - and Alfred thinks there might have been affection in there, somewhere. "I'd express my thanks to you, Matthew, for saving him in time, but I'm not sure if I'm grateful for this thickheaded git's existence."

Oh, so it's Matthew. Alfred tucks that bit away in an imaginary pocket of his mind and makes sure to remember it for next time. "So you're the one who dragged me out," he says, flashing a tired smile at the other blond.

Matthew is dark-eyed, fair-haired. At first glance, with his slightly overgrown hair, Alfred nearly thinks him a girl. "You're welcome?" he says mildly.

"Thank you." Alfred means it.

"I believe this is yours?" Matthew steps forward and presses something into Alfred's hand. "It fell out of your hand when we got here. I wasn't sure if it was important or not, so I held onto it..."

And wouldn't you know it - it's his little picture. Alfred's smile widens and he relaxes against the pillow, his good fingers closing around the worn picture. He exhales a breath he doesn't know he'd been holding. "Thanks, man. Again."

Matthew gives a soft laugh, a nod in his direction. "Get better soon, Captain. We need you out there." He salutes with a small flick of his wrist, before turning to leave.

"I'll try," Alfred calls after him. When it's just him and Arthur again, he turns to the medic to inquire, "He also got hurt?"

"Bullet wound," Arthur says as he busily sanitizes a surgical knife. "Nothing serious, thank God. Just grazed his side as he was pulling your sorry arse back down. Whose brilliant idea was it to send you across no man's land, again?"

"My own." Alfred closes his eyes. Guilt pricks at his conscience, knowing that someone else got hurt because of him. "Did we win, at least?"

Arthur flashes him an unamused look. He turns back to his table of tools, and indulges, "Yes."

It at least brings a smile to the captain's face.

. . .

Within the next day he's back up on his feet again. Alfred remembers to thank the medic with a teasing lilt before leaving, changed back to his semi-normal attire of bomber jacket, shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots after minimal issues with his sling. When he checks his pockets, he's pleased to find his belongings still there, including his chain of dog tags.

(He has two. One has his name inscribed on it; the other simply reads "FREEDOM." He personally likes the second one better.)

In the mess hall, he bumps into Matthew with his sling and has to stifle a hiss as his arm is jolted.

"Merde," he hears the other mumble. Then, louder: "I'm sorry, I wasn't-" Something seems to switch in his voice when he realizes it's Alfred. "Oh. I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't watching where I was going."

Alfred claps a hand around his shoulder. "It's no problem - Matthew, is it?" He actually does know the other's name - along with several things - thanks to Arthur, but he doesn't want to seem creepy. Matthew nods, and he smiles, steering them towards the counters. "Mind eating with me, soldier?" he asks.

"Actually, I just finished," Matthew mutters, but Alfred won't have any of it.

"You won't even give an injured man the pleasure of company?"

"Would you like me to hold that for you, sir?" Matthew says, staring pointedly at a tray, and then to Alfred's injured arm.

Alfred actually laughs. "I've got it, I've got it." He takes his arm from around Matthew to pick up the tray of food. "You goin' to run, soldier?"

Matthew cocks an eyebrow. "With all due respect, Captain, you should pick a table before I change my mind."

"Okay." Alfred can't stop himself from grinning widely. He walks to the nearest empty table and sits down, Matthew following suit. "Are you going back into combat anytime soon?"

"They told me no, not in this condition." Matthew gestures down to himself, and Alfred pictures the bandage wrapped around his waist. "Even though I feel perfectly fine and the army can't afford to put off anyone."

"Well, that's good," Alfred says brightly through a mouthful of food. "Maybe I'll stick around you 'til my unit gets back."

"Maybe you should attend to other matters you surely have," Matthew suggests.

"Can't really get anything done with just an arm, can I?" Alfred waves his good arm around. "All the more reason you should stay with me. You can help a crippled man out."

He's not sure, but he thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile on Matthew's face. "We'll see, Captain."

Alfred shoves another forkful of whatever-meat-this-is into his mouth in an attempt to hide his own idiotic grin.

. . .

Matthew is like sunshine, Alfred thinks sometimes, and then admonishes himself for the strange thought. He watches as the blond takes aim at a target about ten yards away, pull the trigger on his hand gun, and the head of the dummy jerk back as a bullet hole appears square on its head.

A sense of admiration wells up within Alfred, for no particular reason, as he watches the younger man fire off two more rounds. Alfred steps up to the empty booth beside him, picks up a hand gun with a feigned disinterest.

He can feel Matthew's glance on him, but he pretends not to notice. He makes a big show of putting on his ear plugs, then aiming at his own target. When he's sure that it'll be a bulls-eye, he pulls the trigger.

The bullet whizzes past the practice dummy's head.

Alfred curses.

"Might help if you held your gun correctly, Mr. Jones." Then there are warm, soft fingers correcting his own, and Alfred would have held the gun upside down in a march if it meant Matthew would touch him again.

"Thanks," he manages to say without a hitch, and fires again. The gun recoils in his hand and he winces, but the pain ebbs away quickly once he sees that he's hit his target. He turns to the blond soldier with a wide grin.

"No problem, sir." Matthew smiles back, indigo eyes bright. (Alfred has realized that they aren't as dark as he first thought, after all.)

He's tempted to ask if Matthew wouldn't mind helping him practice some more (even though he's actually already pretty good with a gun), but keeps his mouth shut as Matthew is called away and the opportunity to ask is gone.

. . .

In eleven days, Matthew isn't just his literal savior anymore.

After drills, Alfred would head to the mess hall. When he finds his side empty, lacking a presence that is generally Matthew, he strains himself looking through the influx of haggard soldiers filing in to spot that familiar blond head.

When Matthew wears the shirt that's thin enough for Alfred to see the bandage on his waist, he wants to run his hands reverently along the wound and try to make it better, because sometimes he catches Matthew flinching in pain, and pain doesn't belong on any angel's face.

While eating together, Alfred wants to steal something from Matthew's tray so the other would grab his hand again.

And sometimes, when Matthew unexpectedly falls asleep after much exertion, Alfred wants to brush a stray lock of hair away from his face.

But there are people watching, and it's not just the curious eyes that set him off, but the fact that he doesn't want to share these moments with anyone else. He wants them to stay between them and them only - who else's business is it?

When he reflects on these things later, in his bunk, he has to choke back a laugh when he realizes what's happened.

. . .

He doesn't know why it happens - in a time like this, in a place like this, to a person like him.

It's completely and positively unfair because he's more than just infatuated now, he's in fucking love, and everyday he haunts himself with the question of how it can feel so right when he knows it's wrong.

Matthew offers him everything, yet not nearly enough: glances here, feather-soft touches there, sometimes gracing him with a smile with lips that Alfred would like to claim.

(But his mother has taught him how to be a gentleman, so he refrains.)

. . .

There is one moment: Matthew's instructor wears him out too much and he practically passes out once Alfred helps him onto his bunk. "Home," Matthew mumbles into the covers; Alfred struggles to hear the rest of his incoherent muttering, "wanna go home."

He smiles, perched on the edge. The others haven't returned yet. Quickly, he leans down and steals a kiss from a soft cheek. "War's almost over, Mattie."

Matthew's expression visibly relaxes, and then he goes lax.

Alfred touches his hand, pauses, and gets up to leave.

. . .

"Oh, hey, good morning, Matt. Listen, I have to tell you something. I don't know when this happened, but I think I like you," Alfred says to the picture of the flower. He imagines it's Matthew, not an inanimate object that's horribly crumpled. "Well, I do know, actually - I think it's your eyes. I used to really like the color blue, but now I think purple's my new favorite color." He hesitates, pensive. "Your eyes are purple, right?"

The lily says nothing.

"Okay, that's cool." Alfred leans back in his bunk, sure to be careful of his hurt arm, and holds the picture up to the dim light bulb. A little sigh escapes his lips. "Maybe we can just go out for dinner instead?"

"You've already forced me to eat lunch with you, so why not?" interrupts a voice, and Alfred nearly falls off of the bunk and breaks another bone, because holy mother of- it's Matthew standing in the doorway, how much did you hear you sneaky little-

"Uh. Um," Alfred says intelligently.

Matthew's perfectly blond eyebrows furrow downward slightly. "You... Oh, of course, you were just kidding." Matthew is the most embarrassed Alfred has seen of him (so far), cheeks absolutely red. "I'll just pretend that this never happened and leave-"

"No, wait!" Alfred yelps, and scrambles down from his bunk as best as he can with a broken arm. He almost trips over his pants in his haste to grab Matthew's wrist. "Don't go, I wasn't kidding," he says, breathless. "And you already said yes to eating with me, so you can't back out now, you bastard." It slips out by accident.

They are two grown men, soldiers, standing in the desolate bunk area, yet both are florid and shifting around from foot to foot like two teenagers.

(Lovestruck teenagers, Alfred thinks, but pushes that thought away because it isn't helping in the situation.)

Matthew looks amused and confused. The expression looks terribly...suiting on him. Amplifies his big purple eyes. Amplifies his innocence. "I'm not sure if I should take that as a term of endearment," he says carefully.

"You should. It was." He grapples for eloquence, but how can Matthew expect him to speak coherently while he just stands there, being absolutely perfect and tempting to just grab and kiss?

(But, again, that would be rude. And, again, Alfred refrains.)

"How about tomorrow, then?" Matthew offers, and Alfred likes to think that he heard some eagerness in his voice.

He doesn't hesitate in agreeing.

When Matthew is about to leave, Alfred takes his wrist and presses a kiss into the back of his hand, feeling elated beyond words. Matthew humors him with a small pat to the cheek before exiting.

The serious implications of their new relationship is the huge, staggering elephant in the room, but Alfred's imagination is running wild and he can't find the heart to face it.

. . .

Let it be known: Alfred is not lucky.

The next day, Matthew is called away to re-join his unit. He's supposed to go somewhere else - a place Alfred can't recall at the moment, but it's somewhere far. And not near him.

"But you're still hurt," he sputters, touching a hand to where he knows the bandage is. "And you said we'd eat together, Mattie."

Matthew moves away from him, eyes flickering around nervously. "I'll be back before you know it," he says, voice hushed. He grabs his uniform hanging off the wall, then a rifle.

"Just hold on a second." Alfred puts a hand on his forearm, keeps him in place. He takes a deep breath, exhales, says in one breath: "I love you."

Matthew stares, stares, and stares. When Alfred thinks he might finally break the silence, someone else does it for them.

"Matthew, are you in here?" Arthur appears in the doorway with something in his hand. "You forgot your blade with me-" He stops when he sees them standing so close together, Alfred still holding the other, heads bowed close together.

"I can explain," Alfred tries to say, but all Arthur does it shake his head, mutter, "Bloody knew it," set Matthew's knife on a bench, before retreating back to wherever he came from.

A few seconds later, Matthew utters, "Have we been that obvious already?"

Alfred remembers all the times he's asked Arthur about Matthew. "Nah, the old man's just really smart." He releases Matthew's arm and steps back. "Okay, I guess I gotta let you suit up."

"Alfred." Matthew sounds weary, reaching after him. "I lo-"

"Don't say it." Alfred points a finger accusingly at him. For a second, Matthew thinks he's actually angry, until he sees the way his lips are twitching - he's fighting back a grin. "I'll only take love confessions during dinner, thank you very much."

(Manners, manners. Wouldn't his mother be proud?)

Matthew rolls his eyes. "When I thought you were actually managing to be serious," he drawls, turning back to his equipment. He finishes buttoning up the front of his brown uniform and grabs his canteen. "They're waiting for me."

"Better not keep them waiting any longer, then." Alfred is surprised at how calm he says this. "Just...be safe, okay, Mattie?"

Matthew blinks. "Only if you promise that the food will be decent when I come back," he says, crossing his arms.

Alfred chuckles at the adorable pout across the blond's face. "Pinky promise," he says solemnly, linking their fingers together. He moves his hand to the back of Matthew's neck, pulls him closer. He kisses his forehead. "See you on the battlefield in a few days, soldier."

"I'll save you a spot in the trenches, Captain," Matthew says dryly, and leans up and kisses him on the lips. He presses something into the back pocket of Alfred's pants and turns and leaves.

Alfred commends himself for holding his tears in until after Matthew has left and he's alone in his bunk.

. . .

Arthur inquires the next day, "Where's Matthew?"

Alfred asks, "Got sent off yesterday." He smiles, sheepish and teasing at the same time. "Didn't you see us yesterday, Doc?"

But there's suddenly a queasy feeling in his stomach.

"He wasn't fully healed yet," Arthur hisses, and pushes past a horrified Alfred to get someone.

. . .

There's nothing they can do, they tell him.

Bullshit, Alfred wants to tell them.

(Manners, manners.)

It's agonizing, the three days he spends by himself, waiting for news on Matthew's unit. When the latest one comes with a batch of straggling soldiers, Alfred clenches his hands (the cast is finally off) so hard that it draws a little blood.

On the fourth day, he is called to join his unit, much like Matthew had been, and Alfred doesn't think about what will be out there - the bodies, the gunshots, the blood, the mixture of surreality and nausea he gets. He only thinks of Matthew, of making sure that Matthew is okay, that he is still breathing, that he can still attend that dinner because he pinky promised.

When he is back on the field again, the battle has already drawn to a close - they are told to help clean up the bodies. He hears the name of the unit they've joined, and he bites back a cry of relief when he realizes that he's been lucky enough to be sent to Matthew's.

Alfred keeps his eyes sharp for familiar purple eyes and blond hair peeking out from under a helmet.

He already knows what he's going to say: "I already have the candles for our dinner, you know."

He thinks he's finally found the opportunity to say this when he sees the familiar face, only to stop cold, because he doesn't find Matthew standing, but lying on the floor. He sees familiar golden hair, but it's matted with dirt and blood. Behind closed eyelids, purple eyes might have twinkled at him.

Somewhere in between the flurry of events that transpire next, Alfred collapses with his hands pressing tightly against his face, trying to stop tears and trying to erase what he just saw.

He could have said that Matthew is merely sleeping but the lack of the rise and fall of the blond's chest says otherwise.

. . .

He doesn't get to come home - not quite yet. He has some more time to spend in the battlefield before he can return to the barracks again.

It's like this, like it had been before Matthew, before the grenade, before he found something to fight for: Aiming from the trenches, staying low enough so the snipers don't get him, shooting down nameless face after face.

Sometimes he hauls himself up and charges across and into no man's land, a sliver of him hoping that a bullet finds its way embedded into his skin(like it must have done to Matthew), but each and every time, he makes it, and he doesn't know whether to be grateful or not.

Sometimes he presses himself against the cold wall of the trench, the rain beating down and pattering loudly against his helmet. Amidst the gunfire, he takes out a picture from his pocket and kisses it with everything that he has never and will never have the chance to convey.

When he returns, Arthur fixes him up with gauze and bandages and antiseptic, and Alfred might find himself staring expectantly at the cream-colored curtains, waiting for it to be pulled aside by a familiar blond.

Arthur tries to say something to him, but Alfred shakes him off with an empty smile and tells him that he'll be late for something.

The mess hall is sickeningly optimistic with the aura of victory, and so are the faces of all the men.

Alfred sits at an empty table, the one he'd been eyeing for a while, and sets down the picture of Matthew in front of him.

There are two wine glasses in the center of the table; Alfred is the only one there to drink it.

He tilts his head back and downs the glass. As he sets it back down, he's smiling, really smiling, and maybe it's because the war is finally over, or because he can finally go home, or because Matthew's face is smiling at him from the picture he had replaced the lily with.

But he's a soldier, worn and weathered, hardened through cuts and bruises, quite painfully familiar with the way his heart can pound from the fear of death or the ache of love. He's learned not to question where such miracles could come from.