Long, dull author's note: I watched the mini-series of Parade's End and while I loved it, I felt like there wasn't *enough* to it, so I purchased the Kindle version of the novel(s) and haven't really been able to put it down. I am trying to reflect how Ford allows Christopher to spend so much time in his head...something that, IMO, the viewers of the mini-series just did not get enough of.

Add in my zany zeal for all things AU and well, you got this! (I have toyed with making this a crossover, though there is nothing concrete about that...I am simply following the Muse.)

Please note that this story takes place in the future: I don't know exactly when, but not so far away that the things that happen wouldn't, and not so close that I can say it's tomorrow or next year.

Disclamimer: I don't own any of Ford's characters, only my own creations and the background of the story. And since maybe only two other people besides me are going to even read this, I probably didn't even need to tell you that ;) Fans of the novels in question should take this as an extreme compliment to the author that his creations will not let go of me. Also! I made up names of smaller cities, villages and towns, but if you squint you may still recognize the countries.

Chapter One

Christopher- Things are as dull here as they have always been. Mum is working hard on her latest novel so I haven't really seen her much. Of course, that is a good thing as far as studying goes as I've passed all my exams with flying colors! Naturally, the maths gave me three kinds of trouble, but I am happy to say I got through it all with plenty of thanks to you. Now, I am looking forward to summer. I bet you're not. In your last email, you said it was already miserable there.

Did you get the care box Mum and I sent? I hope there were enough sweets and biscuits for you all to share. Will you give the others a hello from me? I miss you, Chrissie, with all of my heart. I know it won't be long and you'll be out and we will be able to be together for good, but I can't help it.

Love, Valentine

Christopher Tietjens closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall behind his bunk. His hands cradle the mini netbook on his thighs, fingers almost touching over the rectangular keyboard. For a second, he tips it upside down over the floor and small bits of sand fall out of it. The little machine certainly has seen better days: the screen is cracked and it makes a loud whirring noise when it is powered on; it is enough, though, to get his emails from Valentine, which he receives with startling regularity, sometimes short like this one and sometimes much longer, depending on what she has going on around her when she finally sits down to write to him. Sometimes she talks about her day and sometimes she tells him about whatever project her mum is currently working on; a few times they have even debated the merits of war back and forth in a rather agreeable fashion…but she always tells him how much she misses him. There are times when the words cut through him like a knife and other times when they keep him from feeling so alone even in the middle of a war zone.

With his legs over the side of the thin mattress, his bare feet dangle next to his dusty camel colored combat boots and dirty socks that he stripped off moments ago in an almost wasted attempt to bring body temperature down. It is a practically useless gesture since there is really no cooling off until he hits the showers and the sun goes down. Even with his eyes closed, the color of this corner of the world is mostly sand and the temperature is sizzling. The thin blanket beneath him is no help as it just collects what he is radiating out.

Actually, he should change his description to stifling; the single fan that sits in the floor in front of the four bunks is somehow doing nothing but moving the heat around. It moves back and forth as if burdened by the weight of the very air, on the walls a poster or two lazily dances in the small current of barely-there-wind produced by the machine. The tent is open on three sides, completely negating the need for lights of any kind until after sunset. Everyone's bunk is exactly like his: single mattress, pillow, bottom sheet, top sheet and blanket. For the most part the sheets are off-white, a color that many of the men call 'almost sand' and the blankets are brown; lots of the soldiers call those…well, there is no reason to be particularly gauche.

Christopher takes a deep breath through his nose and sets the laptop aside, annoyed at himself for forgetting to charge the thing last night. He huffs a little as he stretches muscles exhausted from too many hours of patrol and not enough hours spent actually sleeping. Who can sleep around here? He runs his fingers through what is left of his hair, feeling like a shorn sheep and knocking loose even more fine sand particles that fall onto his shoulders. He changes position so that he can reach the box beneath his bunk and get the charger for the laptop. Once he's got it, he stands and removes the sweat-soaked tee-shirt. As he pulls it over his head a fine mist of dirt is kicked up in the air; he wrinkles his nose at the smell. Ghastly.

At this moment in time, he wants nothing more than to be…

Christopher's thoughts trail off, because the only thing he really wants is to be home. And home means with Valentine Wannop, the girl he has been in love with since the first time his eyes found hers at some to-do put on by her award-winning novelist mother. Christopher had no real reason to be there, other than he was practically dragged by his brother Mark, which, in hindsight-as these things always are-it turns out there was someone else there as almost bored to tears as he remembers being.

They spent the evening talking about everything: Valentine's university courses, her mother's books, Christopher's upcoming deployment and even touched on some things they mostly left unsaid. Loneliness was an ignored topic, but somehow both of them were aware of it. He was more than a little excited to find someone with whom he could level with, someone he could talk to about seemingly random subjects with the ability to, if not exactly understand him, at least keep up. To say that he had been impressed with her would be an understatement.

For the next two weeks, they were almost inseparable. He found excuse after excuse to hang around her house; eventually she became the reason. Her mother would smile up at him fondly then turn and call for Valentine if she wasn't in the immediate vicinity. The older woman would smile and give him a pat on the back or call him down for a kiss on the cheek and go back to whichever manuscript she was currently working on. As he walks with his shaving kit in his hand part of him is aware of the constant murmuring litanies of soldiers talking, doing chores and the miscellany of life in a military camp.

They came from entirely different backgrounds, he and Valentine. Hers was mostly middle class while his—his thoughts derail again as a river of improbably icy water from the shower almost stuns him.

"Gah!" He shouts at the shock of it.

In the makeshift stall next to the one Christopher is using, a man chuckles into the mirror he has propped up on the wooden wall. He is holding one side of his face, making the skin pull over his ruddy cheek in order to shave with the razor in the other hand. His face is almost covered with shaving foam except for the single stripe over his jaw that looks like the rut made in a road after a snow plow makes its first pass. In the center of the stripe is now a tiny red dot.

"Hey, Carrot Top! You oughta be used t'that by now!" The man snickers. "Gonna make me skin my damned face off, man!"

"Mugsy, you irascible bugger! Was it you this time?" Christopher shouts as he leans his head into the spray, his eyes shut. When he is tired, his accent tends to get heavier, and at this point he is beyond caring. When he was first assigned to this strange mix of Canadian/British/American* soldiers he tried his best to cover it up, but when it became apparent that no one really gave two flicks, he dropped the act and decided that there were entirely too many more important things to be concerned about; the top of that list being dirty bombs and dehydration.

Mugsy holds off his comment for a second as he finishes shaving. He is quick with the blade and suffers no more cuts. He leans over the side of the partition and drops his razor into a beat-up bag sitting open on the sandy ground. Inside it are his toiletries as well as the most recent issue of Maxxim. From this side of the stall, he could easily reach over and shut off the water Christopher is enjoying, but that would be cruel. Even with his eyes tightly closed, Mugsy can still make out the dark circles that mark the skin beneath them. He studies Christopher's broad shoulders and the parts of his muscular torso easily seen above the top of the wall with a medic's eye: he knows complete exhaustion when he sees it.

"Ah, Carrot Top, what's with all the big words? Why can't you jes talk like everyone else?" Mugsy teases. "I think you need a little R&R, soldier." He states in the lightest tone he can muster; only the sternness in his brown eyes gives the statement away as an order.

"Back off, Yank!" Christopher cups a hand beneath the spray and splashes the water right into Mugsy's face.

In retaliation, Mugsy really does reach over and turn the water off just as Christopher is squeezing shower gel through his short hair.

"Bloody hell!" Christopher shouts again as Mugsy giggles and pounds on the wooden slats between them with his fist.

"Aww….I'm so sorry, yer Royalness, just lemme fix it for you!" Mugsy flips the tap to the hot side—which is pretty much a joke out here, because it is just lukewarm. It is enough to do the job, though, which apparently is called Make-Christopher-Jump because the younger man does exactly that.

If Mugsy were honest with himself, he would admit that driving his friend up the wall is one of his favorite past times out here, besides oogling any pair of breasts he can find. He smiles to himself and the gold tooth that replaces one of his front incisors shines merrily in the slowly setting sun.

"Carrot Top, you know I'm just harrassin' ya." Mugsy pleads when Christopher gets the soap rinsed off. He likes to drop into his east Tennessee accent because it irritates the living daylights out of his London-born-and-bred comrade.

"Indeed." Christopher snarks as he runs his hand down his jaw. Still reasonably smooth, he can shave in the morning.

"You are beautiful, darlin'." Mugsy says as he pokes Christopher's shoulder with his index finger and makes smacking kiss noises with his sun-chapped lips. "Once you are dressed, or not, stop by my tent. Let's have a pow wow for a bit. Don't have to be formal, let's talk." Mugsy gives the younger man a slap and picks up his bag. Christopher makes a noncommittal sound in his throat as he grabs the end of the towel Mugsy has slung over his hips.

Mugsy is unaware of this retaliation until he is three feet from the two shower stalls and completely starkers. Several soldiers stride by and the immediate vicinity erupts in laughter. Mugsy, unembarrassed, plants his hands on his hips and shakes his head. From the shower, Christopher holds up the towel like he's captured the flag. Mugsy gives him a sort of flippant wave that ends in flashing him the bird before he continues on his way, naked as the day he was born.

Some of the men catcall and whistle so Mugsy plays it up by shaking his behind and prancing towards his tent. He might be the commander, but he knows his soldiers need a break in the tension and if he can be the comic relief, he's all for it. At the door, he shakes his hips one more time and does a little fake bow. Those still watching his impromptu performance clap their hands as Mugsy goes in.

Mugsy's tent is like every other one in the camp: basically made up of three-sides of mosquito netting and a solid side that is supposed to offer some sort of shade. The material it's made from is a shade darker than their fatigues. The floor is sand that has been packed down from walking on it. Only the hospital has a wooden floor, for obvious reasons. Mugsy's tent only differs in the fact that it has a single bunk, rather than the four of the enlisted men's tents; even the officers are expected to double-up. On those rare occasions when the Brass are around, Mugsy moves out of his little home for the night and bunks wherever there is a space.

Mugsy pulls a pair of cargo shorts out of his footlocker then digs towards the bottom and pulls out his ugliest Hawaiian shirt he can find. It is bright red with gigantic purple flowers all over. This should lighten the mood effectively. He settles onto his bunk after grabbing the little sewing kit from the overturned crate that he uses for a table. Stashed under his pillow are several socks with holes in the toes and heels. Mugsy sets to work on them while he waits for Christopher, wishing he was nursing a cold beer and watching the ladies dance instead of darning socks.

Christopher grabs a fresh towel from the stack in the box on the side of the shower stall and ties it over his hips. It only covers him enough to pass for 'decent,' something he has tried and failed to get better at since he's been here. It is difficult being one of the biggest guys in the camp but he makes due, just like everybody else. He crosses the ground between his tent and the showers rapidly, detesting the feel of the grit on the bottoms of his feet. That was something else he had to learn: go barefoot whenever you can because the itching from what the Americans call 'athlete's foot' is enough to make you insane. He only had to suffer it once to understand completely. Back at his bunk, he checks to see that the laptop is charging correctly; the old thing takes forever, but at least it still works. He slips into a pair of cargo shorts and a clean tee shirt then rolls on some deodorant; he heads towards Mugsy's tent, absentmindedly running a hand over his scalp, an old habit that hasn't yet died, even after all these months.

At least for a few moments, his hair is bereft of sand.