WARNING: Character death.

Beta'd by poutmeter. There is art associated with this fic, and is incorporated within it. You can find it here: http(colon)/jonques(dot)livejournal(dot)com/7353

Arthur is busy sitting on a small, flimsy seat in a tent. It's hot out, and sand won't stop blowing in. He's covered in sweat, blood, and bandages thanks to those damned insurgents; why can't they stop for just one day? He sits in the American base's Greenzone now (a truly frightening place to sit) after his convoy met … trouble on their way to the British camp. He and the rest of his regiment are being checked in, bandaged, and await orders, but for now…. Colonel Arthur Kirkland sits, trying to cool off in the blasted desert. His right forearm is burned, and glass has gouged a slice open in the same hand. The left side of his forehead had been met with flying rubble and the blood has dribbled down to stain his jacket. Bandages and gauze have been met to the wounds, though he knows they'll need changing soon. For now, he takes the moment to relax after learning of losing three of his very good men.

Looking around he sees all of the patriotic décor, and he can't help but grin as he recalls a certain fellow he happens to know. A certain Lieutenant Colonel Alfred F. Jones, "From NYC!"

They had met six or 7 years ago, both stationed in Kosovo. Alfred was 20 and already a first lieutenant, "Thanks to military school," whereas Arthur was 24, and a major. It had been tricky, at first, keeping things hush-hush for the vague yet oh-so-strict guidelines regarding relations of a more … romantic and intimate sort. The only easy part, even now, is that they see each other minimally. They accrue leave-time to spend in Coventry, Arthur's hometown, and Manhattan. They make sure that, when serving close enough together, they can take their weekend pass or R&R together. Calls and any letters are kept short, filled with all kinds of euphemisms to portray any kind of endearment. (This works well with Arthur, as he's not too much of one to showcase blatant affection, and that works well with Alfred, if only for the fact that his military career is otherwise at stake.)

Arthur knows that Alfred's company isn't too far from where he is. He takes a moment to thank whomever is listening that they are so close, and for the fact that it hasn't been too long since they'd last seen each other. Only two weeks ago both had met up in Budapest, and Arthur can still see just how blue Alfred's eyes shine through his glasses, and even in their reflection on Alfred's dog tags they still match and easily camouflage themselves with the sky. There are so many things about Alfred that make Arthur grin, even if he'll deny it to the day he dies. Alfred has the most aberrant lock of hair in his fringe, refusing to lay flat. Despite his age, Alfred acts like he's a 14 year old boy at his favorite baseball team's World Series game. He pretends to have absolutely no tact whatsoever, but Arthur knows better and uses this to his advantage. Alfred also wears a decades-old jacket; he claims it to be his grandfather's Lucky Bomber from World War II, and he goes into no new territory without it. (Arthur will deny it, but he fancies wearing it when no one's looking. He also learns through that story that Alfred's father died in Desert Storm, and his mother had been the one to ship him off to military school before virtually abandoning him.) Arthur will, however, admit a certain thrill for Alfred in his uniform, be it combat or mess, but there is a certain delight he harbors for grabbing the American's dog tags and pulling him down … down … down….

There's something else reflecting, however, and it catches Arthur's attention in a not-so-flattering way as Arthur loosens and removes his tie.

The red, silver, and blue, foil stars strung through the tent reflect the sun harshly, and Arthur has to wince away as the light reflects directly into his eyes. The small, "Augh!" he releases in response is still enough to make him thankful that he's alone in the tent for the time being.

"Colonel A. Kirkland?"

Scratch that.

Arthur looks up to see a man dressed neatly and standing at attention. It's a US officer, holding a few small things. "Yes? Ah, relax, this is nothing formal," he says.

The officer takes that as his cue and he steps forward to stand in front of Arthur. He holds out the items in his hands. "There are express orders to give these directly to you, Sir."

Arthur stares up at the officer, then at the items. Something seems to want to stop him from grabbing what's being given to him, but his arms move on their own and the second his fingers touch them—just a large box and some letters—an almost electric shock jolts him upright. He's curious to know what's been given to him, but he's not sure he's curious enough to actually find out.

"Thank you, officer."

The officer gives a salute, and leaves the tent.

Arthur looks at the gifts in his hands, yet he's not sure if he should call them gifts. He wonders which to open first, and decides it's probably prudent to open and read the letters first.

There are only two of these, and both are rather short. The first is just talking about how his favorite baseball team is doing (Arthur rolls his eyes with a small and affectionate grin), and the second is filled with the secret words and phrases they had subconsciously designated for each other. Arthur smiles widely and reads in the post script, It's way too hot for my jacket and l couldn't take it with me so I'm sending it to you. You better take good care of it, cuz I ain't gonna be happy if something happens to it!He has to chuckle a little bit, but promises to beat him silly for using 'ain't.'

In the box is, as he'd surmised from the letter, Alfred's coat. Well, it's rather hot where Arthur is, as well, but he supposes he can find a use for it.

"Colonel Kirkland, Sir. These just came in for you."

Arthur looks up to see the same officer, back again so soon. This time he's holding a much smaller box, and what looks like another letter. As last time, the officer hands the two items to Arthur, but he stays put for a moment as Arthur opens the letter.

"I believe the letter simply states that you were Lt. Col. Jones' appointed next-of-kin, should anything happen."

The forgotten uneasy feeling has returned as Arthur is confirmed on the letter's message.

Now, though, it's time for that little box. It looks innocent enough, but Arthur can feel the soft hair on the back of his neck start to prickle and he's not sure if that's a good sign. Still he stares at it, and he sets aside the jacket only temporarily before going to grab the box.

Holding the plain, black, cardboard box, an ice-cold dread creeps through his veins and the only good part about this is that he can, for a moment, stop baking in the heat. Tentatively he stares at it, deciding that he has no desire whatsoever to open this box. He knows that once he opens it, he's going to learn something he doesn't want to learn and he refuses—absolutely refuses!—to do that to himself.

Despite his mental resolutions, his fingers act of their own accord. They shakily grip at the box's edge, still gathering the strength required to open it. Arthur's breath rattles within him like his lungs are ready to collapse and the ice rushing through him surges with a kick of force. Force enough to open the box.

For a moment, the longest moment, Arthur stares, not entirely sure what he's looking at. Actually, he knows exactly what he's looking at, but he's not sure he's ready to admit it.

No….

There, in the box, in the cushioned center of the box, shining and reflecting a light that does not—cannot—reach Arthur's heart, are two dog tags.

Two gleaming, silver, chained dog tags. Two cleaned, polished, yet so, so dirty and bloody dog tags. Two dog tags that, until recently, should have been resting elsewhere than in this box. Dog tags that should be reading something that is not—

Everywhere, Arthur feels a sudden, sharp pain as the remaining oxygen within him leaves in a rush. Pins and needles scratch their ways up his body, piercing his heart and lungs and tearing at his already beaten and sore muscles. Foreign warmth touches his eyes, a foreign warmth he's learned to push away in the army, but the liquid that falls from them is freezing cold. He can't breathe, and he knows that if he attempts any sudden movements, he'll shatter.

His hand is trembling as his eyes stare disbelievingly at the box and tags in it. He's not blinking and he feels the dry air sting his eyes but still tears are falling. His injured hand comes up to cover the right side of his face; he has no idea what to do.

"Sir…?"

No matter how much he wills it, the name engraved into the metal won't change.

A scratched, strangled yell escapes his throat, hiding the No's that have finally migrated from the back of his mind to his vocal chords. Arthur can't tell if his heart has actually stopped, or if it's doing the sobbing for him, but he does know that he can't bring himself to care that his soldiers have gathered at the tent's opening.

What he does find himself caring about is that they're blocking the sun from reflecting off of the stars, and the dog tags.

He knows it's summer, and even though he's dressed in his mess uniform still with a few bandages and scrapes, Arthur cannot bring himself to complain of the heat in Washington DC.

"The fifth fold of the flag is a tribute to the country, for in the words of Commodore Stephen Decatur, 'Our country, in dealing with the other countries, may she always be right, but it is still our country, right or wrong.'"

Arthur watches as the flag of the United States is folded, the flag he will shortly be receiving, and listens only vaguely as the folds' meanings are read aloud. His mind is too busy thinking of nothing.

"The sixth fold of the flag is for where people's hearts lie. It is with hearts that people pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

In the crowd he can hear a woman sobbing and with a sickening twist of his stomach, he realizes that he knows perfectly well who it is. He met her just hours ago. She is the mother of Arthur's former lover, and until just a few hours ago, a woman who believed she would finally be receiving her own flag. (She had missed out on her husband's and expected her son's, but Arthur made sure to inform her in clear, simple, English that he was named next-of-kin, in Alfred F. Jones' own handwriting, and that hewould be receiving the honors.)

Before he knows it, the honor guard is standing before him, holding the folded flag. Its blue canton and white stars shine up at Arthur, and Arthur can only feel an ironic sense of sarcastic amusement churn in his stomach. His tears are used up for now, and he stares listlessly back at those stars. The dog tags hang now around Arthur's neck until he can get home where they will hang next to the flag being offered to him.

"On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation."

Arthur takes the flag carefully, with trembling hands and frightened fingers. Time passes both quickly and slowly as he collects whatever else is being handed to him, he can't tell at the moment, but soon enough he is the second—no, third—to-last person there. His eyes remain on the casket for a long while, and he's unsure whether or not he trusts the vigil to keep guard well enough. More than anything he just wants to approach the casket and demand that Alfred stop joking around, but he knows better than that and no matter how much he may want it, he knows it won't happen.

Part of him feels guilty as he turns to walk away. He has to command his legs to move him, and he can feel his heart trying to pull him back. As if trying to fill the space his delinquent heart is leaving, Arthur presses the flag in his arms close to his chest.

The blue canton is stained a bit darker when a few wayward tears fall and splash on to it.

At home in Coventry, Arthur cleans off the fireplace mantle. (This is a small task in and of itself.) There are small picture frames, holding official photographs taken by the US Army of Alfred. Among them are photos from his military school. The same is said for Arthur, and to add on there are the few pictures they were able to take together during their leaves of absence or R&R time. The centerpiece is the flag that was presented to him, now being held in a display case. It will never fly, but Arthur has taken care to purchase a separate American flag to fly beside his own Union Flag.

Arthur is getting ready to place the final piece up. Alfred's dog tags.

Before he hangs the chain over the nail, he looks, for the thousandth time, at the tags. His thumb runs over the name and as the light hits it, he swears he can see his reflection morph into Alfred's, his grass-green eyes change to clear ocean blue.

It's over in a split second and Arthur sighs hoarsely. He reaches to hang the tags but he hesitates, part of him knowing that once the tags are up, it's all over. He grimaces.

"Stupid old fool," he berates himself. "Don't—don't be stupid."

He braces himself and bites his cheek as he finishes the task.

Arthur has one night left at home before he has to report back in Afghanistan.

There's no use in reading.

He has no cable or internet, so there's no form of entertainment through the telly or computer.

The post will only depress him further.

…Bed it is.

Arthur takes his nighttime routine with silence and monotony. His shower is quick and neither hot or cold, and he brushes and flosses his teeth. It's normal. He redresses his burn and cuts. It's all normal, until he crawls into bed. He knows perfectly well how silly it is to keep Alfred's 'side of the bed' made, but if he will have any vice regarding Alfred—not being there…—he would rather it be this. He shuts off his lamp and though he sleeps with no extra light, he can see Alfred's jacket hanging up on the door. He can see it perfectly.

It's not haunting, but … it does sadden him further. He turns away, but this time he turns away to face Alfred's side. He glares in frustration, but he can't bring himself to move anymore. Instead he relaxes and thanks the dark for masking the rest of the tears he's been holding in. It feels as though he's being watched, and if he's being watched by whom he thinks is watching him, he's not sure if he'd appreciate those tears.

He's not sure if the dog tags would reflect the light the same way they do now, and more than anything, that's what Arthur's scared of.

END

NOTES:

1.) Greenzone vs. Redzone. I learned this from my brother. Not the place to be. Try to stay in the Redzone; the Greenzone gets hit more than you think. (I know, right?)

2.) Ranks are, for the most part, the same in the US and British armies. It basically goes: Second Lieutenant, (First (US only)) Lieutenant, Captain, Major, Lieutenant Colonel, Colonel, so on, so forth.

3.) "Leave" means they can take a break to go home. "R&R" (Rest and Relaxation) means they can leave base to a different country for a little bit. (For example, when my dad was in Vietnam, he could take his R&R in Thailand, Japan, or Hawai'i.)

4.) …I'm sure we allll know about the military's phobia of homosexuality.

5.) I took some literary license. Budapest (capital of Hungary) is mentioned. I don't know where soldiers stationed in the Middle East are allowed to go for R&R, so I picked at random. I'm sorry if this snaps your hairbands.

6.) Desert Storm. Basically the pre-cursor to current activity in the Middle East, in a way. To the youngins reading, go ask your parents for a brief history lesson. (That, or pay attention in your US history class.)

7.) Uniforms. Britons call them mess uniforms. Americans call them dress uniforms. (As an American, I do have to wonder why the British would choose 'mess' to describe a formal uniform….)

8.) Oh boy. Next-of-kin. Again you'll have to forgive me for (probably having) botched this up. The US military has a ranking of just whom is considered next-of-kin. Spouse, oldest son-and-or-daughter, etcetera. However. The soldier may, in writing, assign the next-of-kin. It doesn't necessarily mean, "The son who will carry on the name." It's just who receives the honors of the fallen soldier/airman/etc. This includes medals, flags; that sort of thing.

9.) Folding and receiving of the flag. According to my research there's a bit of dispute between whether or not it's folded 12 times (for religious purposes, I believe?) or 13 times (to represent the original 13 colonies). Once folded and tucked, it's supposed to resemble George Washington's and John Paul Jones' bicorn hats, making Americans remember the soldiers who fell creating and defending the US. Everything spoken in that scene is legitimately said.

10.) Once folded and tucked, the flag is never to be opened and flown again. It is to remain folded and tucked forever.