#havers has an insane backstory but thats not important rn

[glowinggreeneyes-e]

Threads, 4.2k Capvers

Can be read as stand-alone but it's a chapter from There's a War Going On, AO3. I type like I'm a Victorian writer being paid by the word (derogatory).

papvers?? capventing??... capvers parenting but they're looking after an injured girl from West Horsley who wandered onto the Button House grounds. it's cute af. capvers also have Issues(tm), an 'It's Complicated' relationship status on 2008 Facebook, work-related tension bc of said angsty Issues, and yet still have penchant for fluff because gay love pierces through the veil.

May, 1940

The cloud-blocked sun still cast long shadows across the Captain’s dim study, bringing to prominence the weariness etched into the lines of his face and the aged floorboards grains. As he occupied himself with his duties, he became wreathed in wisps of smoke spiralling from the end of his pipe. Dust still kicked up with the gusts of the summer-soon reaching through the open window, capturing the Captain’s attention in moments of contemplation; he enjoyed watching it dance in the air, swirling in the rays of light, while his mind buzzed.

His gaze had been fixed on a document casing spread out before him - everything Operation Solder - it mocked him with its official title. Weeks had slipped through his fingers since he last penned a meaningful entry into the file, a truth that caused a pang of embarrassment to twist within him. However, he was quick to point out, that the fault wasn't solely his own: blame could also be apportioned upon Havers' shoulders.

Beyond the confines of their shared operations, distractions seeped into his consciousness. New training regulations fluttered in, War strategies billowed through the House, and novel projects beckoned him. Research and travel conspired to steal his hours, leaving him feeling as if he were forever chasing the hands of the clock. 

The camaraderie that once bound his unit had frayed from the incessant work, its once vibrant tapestry unravelling into isolated threads. A mere quartet, the remnants of his unit, were left finding solace in the pub's shady embrace: MacKenny, Jones, Thomas, and Johnstone, naturally. Card games and convivial offers came his way, but he abandoned those evenings once filled with social escapism. It was all melting into a mere memory. His realm of productivity demanded a vast expanse of solitude, the sanctuary of his own space, while he smothered himself in his charge.

It was a delicate orchestration of self-discipline; he navigated its intricate bars with an external resolute grace, but in his mind, he couldn’t be screaming louder.

It felt like he always ended up back here.

The tip of his index finger traced the inked signatures of his and Havers’ names adorning the bottom of the Operation’s title page. He then leafed through its neglected pages, though the Captain barely registered the innumerable notes or sketches or references. Instead, his mind only provided flashes of Havers’ research into silencers, Havers’ letters, Havers’ persistent obscurity.

At times, the Captain watched over the Lieutenant in the drawing room, capturing fleeting glimpses of Havers tutoring Roberts or pondering the world's weight with the end of a pen clamped between his teeth, or engrossed in the tomes that lined their shelves. Of course, the Lieutenant kept close attention to all communication: he’d be the first to ask Jones for the morning briefings from HQ, the earliest when sorting through paper correspondence, and the last to check MacKenny for news at night. 

The Captain witnessed Havers' self-imposed isolation, his entire hurt marked by being tight-lipped. While the two of them still found themselves captured in a web of tension, the library had provided a fragile interlude before trust dissipated into an elusive spectre. And with each stolen glance, each hesitant touch, the Captain recognized the preciousness of time slipping away, the dwindling opportunities to bridge the divide that had entrenched itself between them. 

Beneath the layers of frustration and reticence lingered a deeper truth - the profound and complicated truth that bound him to Havers. There, tightening like a torturous device around his heart, defeating his commitment to finding a way back to what they had once been, was a conviction that overrode everything else. Toxic in its intensity, consuming all reason, and yet refusing to be extinguished…

He couldn’t let it be the undoing of him: love. Especially when it was built on one man's lies.

Mid-afternoon had indolently rolled around with high clouds that cloaked the countryside. When duty had momentarily relinquished its grip, the Captain had, for the first instance that day, ventured to the kitchen for fresh water. He had dodged his unit on the way down, nipping behind walls and doors as if traversing through enemy lines, but instead, he was desperately hoping to be left in solitude.

This morning’s reports had drained his well of cordiality. An assault on the Low Countries was not just a whisper or hypothesis anymore, but a reality that gripped the world. One by one the states of Western Europe fell into occupation and War. In the trenches of his soul, Clarke sifted through the debris of disheartening news and searched for remnants of British optimism, to keep his capacity to carry on, keep to his duties, keep everyone in line.

It was after he had descended onto the ground floor landing, where silence gripped the empty space, that he was confronted by the existence of other people in the downstairs of Button House. Only this instance was entirely extraordinary: tucked neatly against the skirting in the House’s entryway, he spotted a pair of tiny red shoes covered in dried mud and oak leaves. He squinted down at them, the muscles around his eyes reflexively scrunching with his brief inspection.

He drew his hands together, clasping them resolutely behind his back and assumed a rearing posture, preparing to raise his chin with insolence: he just didn’t have time for this. 

Entering into the kitchen, he let a wave of exasperation sweep over him - the state of the cooking area was the last thing he wanted to concern himself with today.

But there, before him, was his Lieutenant and a shoeless little girl murmuring softly, engaged in quiet banter. Havers was down on one knee, first aid kit within reach. With steady precision, he gently cleaned the girl’s split skin across her shin bone with one hand and let her squeeze his other.

The scene struck the Captain twice, for the questions it raised and its palpable tenderness. A fuzziness as wonderful as the softest breeze wrapped around his ribcage as he observed. Never could he anticipate, let alone imagine, have he could have been moved by his second-in-command - he felt the strain between them go slack.

The girl was perched on one of the unused kitchen chairs, watching the Lieutenant’s actions intently. She couldn’t have been older than eight if the Captain dared hazard a guess (not that he had any authority on the ages of youth… did they have all their teeth? Did they know how to talk?). She was gowned in a blue gingham dress that complimented her freckled skin and ginger-blonde hair, rebelliously having escaped its plaits. Her long, white socks were pulled down, revealing the extent of her gashes. At her hanging feet, Havers had discarded several pieces of bloodied cloth and wipes in his endeavour to begin her healing. It appeared to be anything but superficial, but the girl’s clenched fists betrayed her stoicism. Such a sight plucked at the strings of the Captain’s heart, reverberating with echoes of sentimentality. Oh, God.

Eventually, he relented to the fact that he hadn’t been noticed. “Havers?” he asked, his voice breaking the spell of their hushed discussion.

Startled, Havers turned his head, his visage a canvas painted with a mix of guilt and mellowness, as though he had been caught in the act of thievery - stealing time from the call of duty, giving it to the girl. “Oh, sir, sorry - I have a bit of a war-wound situation that needs attending to.”

“Ah, I see,” the Captain reassured.

Infrequent interactions with children had left him unsure of how to reach across the chasm of age with the proper course of conversation. Yet, the innocence in the girl's gaze impelled him to transcend his uncertainty, not to scuttle back to his dulling work. His lips curled into a smile, etching lines of fondness around his eyes, and he approached the pair.

“And what might be the name of this young lady?” he gently inquired.

“I should have introduced you: this is Mrs Bell’s daughter, Matilda-”

“Tilly!” she corrected, her interjection imbued with spirited determination. “And I’m six and a half and a bit more, sir.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” was all the Captain could muster, overtly formal in his reply. Any further response remained suspended, momentarily caught in the deep embarrassment of not conjuring anything else. She smiled back at him all the same.

“By Jove, you must have nearly finished primary school by now,” Havers quipped, his tone soft and dulcet, laced in charm, all the while skillfully tending to a profound wound.

“No, sir, I'm not that old.” Tilly’s melodious giggles filled the air. Her hands hurried to cover her mouth, finally letting Havers free to bandage her up with full dexterity and concentration. “I’ve only been at school for two years. But I am really good at reading and writing. My teacher, Miss Durrant, tells me I have the neatest handwriting in all the school.”

As an observer, the Captain wrestled with a sense of inadequacy, in his own territory, too. He yearned to contribute - to coax a laugh from Tilly's stomach, to ease Havers' task with a jest - but his mind remained a barren landscape, void of inspiration yet littered with mines and gunfire. So he busied himself with discarding the stained and spent medical supplies into the bin.

Only the gentleness of Havers’ eyes punctured through the noise. And his gaze wasn’t even directed at him.

Havers acknowledged Tilly's testament with an enthusiastic nod, before continuing in such a genuine and calming fashion that the Captain was stunned at his sensitivity. “Gosh, how remarkable - you should take great pride in your accomplishments. You know, I struggle at times to decipher certain Officers' handwriting. But perhaps that's more my fault than theirs.”

“I bet I could read it! I can read almost anything.”

“I’d let you, were they not classified documents… unless, of course, you’re secretly an Officer? And you’ve been undercover this whole time?” the Lieutenant playfully quizzed, tilting his head. She nodded ‘no’, cheeks rosy from blushing. “Now,” Havers continued, distracting her from his wipes of antiseptic, “for someone as eloquent and intelligent as yourself, I imagine the rest of your schooling will be a breeze. What do you want to do when you leave education?”

“Well, I wanted to be an actress but Mummy says I can’t so I’ll just work at the factory like her,” Tilly said. A hint of disappointment tinged her reply as innocence wrestled with the stark realities that framed her life. All the brazen honesty and innocence a child should possess was already being eroded.

“I think the girl who can read almost anything can do anything, Tilly,” the Captain found himself saying, a surge of warmth emanating from his heart to his words. “Your life should not be bound by anyone else's expectations. With your killer smile and delight, the world is your stage. That, I promise you.” 

As he spoke, the Captain noticed a subtle shift in Havers’ demeanour, a flicker of intrigue followed by a raised eyebrow. Yet, Havers continued his ministrations, his focus unwavering. 

The Captain and the girl exchanged a smile, content to let the moment linger, to weave his rhetoric into the fabric of Tilly's memory and impressionable heart.

“Oh, I- Thank you, sir.”

As he reached to put the first aid box away, his knuckles brushed Havers, who was reaching down to store away a pair of scissors. He quickly stood up and put distance between them, terrified that such contact would be reported to her family, even if Tilly was oblivious. “My, uh, my mother was an actress,” he added to fill the ensuing lull, an equal distraction for Tilly and himself.

“Oh, woah, what was she in?! Was she in the opera? Or-Or did she act in the pictures?” the young girl exclaimed, her green eyes - fixed on him - were wide with contagious enthusiasm, her candour a mirror of her age.

Havers also asked that question, only his was unspoken and shrouded in a veil of something indecipherable to the Captain.

It didn’t occur to him that he’d have further inquiries, nor the flood of pain and images it would unleash. Memories, long dormant, surfaced in a haze. His mother was long fated to be contained to tattered photographs and stories told by strangers. Caught in this inner reverie, the Captain bit his cheek, the taste of nostalgia mingling with his thoughts. His hands, now free of tasks, found solace at his side as he stood to attention; he looked at Tilly, though his thoughts were darting elsewhere. It was only after Havers shot him another glance of concern that he realised he should respond. “Oh, uh, well… she was on the West End in several productions; she worked under Ibsen for Hedda Gabler and Ghosts ; I was told she socialised with Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw; she-she even performed in New York for a short period. If she could forge such a path half a century ago, one can only imagine what you can achieve.”

“Can she make me famous?”

He hesitated, a moment of introspection that hung heavy in the air. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that his mother had long since passed, but he also hadn’t the aforethought to lie. “Come now, you can do that all by yourself, Miss Tilly.”

At that point, the final bandage had been securely set in place, and Havers rose, his gaze hovering on his handiwork. “There you go,” he proclaimed, a note of quiet satisfaction permeating his words. 

Having inspected the Lieutenant’s meticulous efforts, the Captain made a commendatory sound and bounced on the balls of his feet approvingly. “And how’s our bravest Officer feeling?” he said to Tilly, infused with newfound confidence. Conversing with her felt more natural than anticipated, less daunting than he’d initially assumed. His heart no longer felt like it was going to explode for the wrong reasons. He’d just had to - uncomfortably at first - relinquish the mantle of ‘the Captain’.

She pulled her socks over her wound dressings. “I’m ready to get back to the frontlines, sir!”

“Jolly good. Hasn’t our Lieutenant Havers done an outstanding job?”

“He has indeed, sir… Captain, sir.” Tilly responded with a touch of formality, her voice a blend of admiration and respect. She looked up at Havers, beaming at him. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“You’re welcome. You displayed incredible courage, Tilly,” Havers accredited, unrolling the cuffs of his sleeves. “I commend your bravery.”

“You’re braver.”

“Uh,” he breathed, “well, I wouldn't-“

Her reply, brimming with childlike virtue, cut through the air. “And the loveliest man in the whole wide world.”

A flush of humility tinted Havers' cheeks, his attempt at modesty stumbling in the face of her unguarded sincerity. His gaze averted as if unable to bear the weight of her praise. He stumbled to find his footing. “I-I’m not sure-”

The Captain's intervention was swift, his own brand of reassurance layered with a dash of jest. “I should fancy you are spot on with that assessment, soldier. I quite agree.” 

He then found himself peering at his second-in-command, filled with pride himself; his heart was messily aflutter, stuck in conflict, as he reigned in his fleeting moments of turbulent infatuation. Havers’ reticent smile and compassion with the young girl, his intellect and service, how had he the heart to deceive him? The Captain's face fell, realising he once looked at Havers with much the same innocence as Tilly.

“He is! I got lost and he saved me from the dirt and sharp stones and stinging nettles like I was one of your soldiers. And he made my leg feel better.” Tilly's enthusiasm bubbled forth, her recounting of the events a vivid testament to Havers' gallantry.

“Oh, but you are one of our soldiers,” Havers countered, deflecting from the compliment. “You so fiercely traversed the wilderness and sought refuge with your allies when you needed help. And now - although I’m not exactly qualified - you have just been nursed back to health in this battlefield triage. That certainly makes you a real soldier.”

“I am?!” Her small hands tucked her hair behind her ears and she swung her feet. Her leg, still tender, responded to her exuberance with a cautionary protest - she winced at the sudden movement and settled for kicking the uninjured one in her excitement.

A spark of inspiration suddenly crossed the Captain’s mind, illuminating his eyes. He turned around to confirm it. In the corner of the kitchen, a coat stand stood adorned with the winter apparel of others - Last's coat, Miller’s scarf, and an old standard-issue cap that had remained untouched for months. The Captain deduced it was likely Bosanko's, left abandoned in his snappy departure. “Here, Matil- Tilly, try this on,” the Captain suggested, his voice infused with childlike anticipation as he retrieved the cap from its resting place. He swiped it and handed it over to her.

Tilly stood up, unintentionally scraping the chair back with a brief screech. As the hat was extended out to her, she glanced between the two men; though her eyes twinkled with eagerness, her eyebrows folded together. It was as if she was preparing to accept the weight of the responsibility that came with the uniform. Resolutely, determinedly, she took it and placed it like a crown. The cap, much too large for her head, remained perched with a playful tilt.

“There,” Clarke’s simper was barely masked beneath his moustache as he reflected her infectious joy. “Suits you splendidly; now you’re fully qualified and ready for whatever comes your way.”

“At your service!” A salute, both a gesture of gratitude and a pledge of allegiance, punctuated their interaction.

The Captain returned Tilly’s salute, a buoyant sensation coursing through him. He was sure he hadn’t felt this light in months, the moment lifting a weight he hadn't fully acknowledged existed. The world around them seemed to blur, fading to insignificance as he basked in the fulfilling simplicity of brightening a child’s day during a War.

Yet, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the subtle signs that aired Havers' unease. Ever the composed and capable man, he bore an unfamiliar veneer of trepidation. A deep inhale, tense shoulders - the Captain supposed Havers was enduring his own hurricane of emotions.

“We should be taking our leave,” the Lieutenant promptly suggested, directing his passive instruction towards the young girl.

However, the Captain chimed in, carrying a sense of authority again. “No need; I’ll call her mother to pick her up.”

“That will take too long, sir. I’ll walk her back. Make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”

“R-Right, very well; as you were, Lieutenant.”

Havers' gaze shifted to Tilly, his eyes meeting hers with gentle instruction. “Why don’t you put your shoes on?”

“Yes, sir!” she replied. She grabbed the cap’s visor and gathered the fabric of her dress, then scurried to the entryway where her shoes awaited.

As Tilly, absorbed in her task, prepared herself for the walk home, the Captain and Havers moved further into the kitchen, their actions a conscious retreat from the young girl's view. The Captain wasn’t sure why they were gravitating back there, moving in unspoken accord, but he let it happen.

In this sanctuary of muted privacy, their proximity stirred images of a time when the distance between them was calculated and terrifying. The Captain's heartbeat quickened, and for a fleeting moment, he was transported back to those clandestine days where their glances held a world of longing, where they couldn’t even meet each other’s eye without blushing, when he could only dream of what it would be like to kiss Havers. 

His chest leapt and suddenly it was like nothing was ever wrong. It was just him and Havers against the world once more.

If there were another force of nature left undiscovered, the Captain could feel it in his heart as it pulled him closer to the Lieutenant. The frustration he had harboured for so long washed off his soul as their knuckles brushed once more, igniting a connection that transcended speech, though not quite replacing it.

“You’re having quite the adventure today, Lieutenant. Although dealing with lost and injured children isn’t typically within the scope of our duties, I’m hesitant to pull you up for it,” the Captain spoke softly, offering warmth under his subtle teasing.

“Sir,” Havers warned in a whisper, doing nothing to pull away. A further response seemed poised on his lips, but the words never came, leaving them suspended in a painfully awkward moment.

“I had no idea you were so good with children. You treated her as if she was your own.” The Captain shifted their discourse to a more palatable subject than War or the threads between them, steering a diverting course around difficult conversation for as long as he could.

Alone and emboldened, he reached out, and held Havers’ hand by their sides: a touch, gentle yet laden with significance, meant to bridge every distance between them. Havers briefly met their intertwined hands like it was burning him, then squeezed the Captain's hand as though it was a soothing remedy.

“She will surely remember your kindness for the rest of her life. You’re exceptional with her,” the Captain continued, his words infused with affection, his grasp on Havers' hand tightening slightly.

“It’s my duty to be so. She is everything we are fighting for, everything we need to protect, everything I should be-” Havers stopped himself. His breath hitched which he bit down with a solemn smile. “I am only doing what is right.”

“Yet I do not hear of Lieutenant’s walking injured little girls home to make sure they are safe and do not get into any trouble with their mothers.”

“Well, I couldn't send her off into the village by herself. Look where she ended up last time. ”

“There are worse fates than ending up being cared for by you.”

The atmosphere between them grew warmer, filled with coy smiles and bashful glances, a glimpse of the raw infatuation they once wholly felt. An incandescent hope jumped inside the Captain, a possibility that perhaps they weren't as strained as he had feared, they weren’t as doomed as he’d embraced.

Their eyes locked, two souls laid bare, until the Captain felt compelled to break the loaded silence. “You haven't quite been yourself as of late.”

Havers huffed an aggrieved laugh through his nose. “I could say the same for you. It’s been rather a dreadful few weeks for us, though, hasn’t it?”

“I suppose so. But it wouldn’t be so terrible if we talked.”

“We tried,” Havers said, appearing a fusion of heartache and longing only documented by romantics.

Not hard enough, the Captain bitterly thought. He held this truth close, unwilling to risk regression in the delicate balance he had struggled to achieve. He still sought a way to reconcile Havers’ life with his own, with the War, with them. But Havers had made it his mission to not talk any further about himself - when everything was so intertwined, the Captain wondered if Havers ever intended on fixing the tension between them. No, he’d sooner run away, like he is now.

The goodwill that had once filled him now receded, replaced by the familiar undercurrent of paranoia. “I'm ready for you to try again.” His comment tumbled out with an unintended edge of anger. 

Then he saw a glint of tears forming in the wells of Havers’ brown eyes, and the thread of trust frayed to its thinnest strand.

“Good God. You’re impossible,” Havers breathed, almost pleading.

“What?”

“You know- Why are you-?”

“I’m ready!” Tilly called from the other side of the wall.

Tilly's shout shattered the moment, her voice a reminder of their reality beyond this brief interlude. Havers moved away with a hurried pace without another glance, his attention purposefully drawn to the young girl. 

Empty-handed, the Captain trailed behind, his own sense of yearning now mingling with the cold air that now seemed to envelop the ground floor. The space between them exploded with its expansion, threatening to swallow what was left of their fragile entanglement.

“We’ll get you home and clean those fantastic shoes up. They’ll be back to a bright red in no time,” Havers declared to Tilly with a gentle celebration. He offered his hand and she reached up, locking their palms together. Havers held all the weight of her arm with one hand and opened Button Houses’ front door with the other. “Onwards, soldier. I don’t suppose you know any marches or songs?”

As the Lieutenant guided Tilly outside, the Captain remained, watching from the window, an observer of this scene that both resonated with familiarity and echoed with the chilling void.

The Captain knew things had turned sour. Play fighting was merely fighting. From the fringes of War, they absorbed every harrowing development while they were working themselves sick. And amidst it all, a sinking feeling, a premonition, gnawed at the Captain's gut: an intuition that the worst news was yet to come.

When it did come, it would devastate him. And it will be Havers’ fault, he vehemently tried to convince himself once again.