#leonard bast x you

[wheels-of-despair]

What You Deserve | Leonard Bast x You | Series Masterlist

Once upon a time, a boy entered a bookshop...

Part Two: Is That Fair? Words: 1.7k Date: Friday, December 22, 1911

Over the last year, you had fallen completely in love with a man named Leonard Bast.

He came to your father's bookshop every Friday. On his first few visits, he'd browsed for fifteen minutes and talked to you for the remaining forty-five. But then, after a while, he'd just accept the book you'd chosen for him and spend the whole hour discussing last week's read, or a classic, or the symphony he'd recently attended, or a highly lauded stage play nobody seemed to be able to acquire tickets to. You laughed, and you joked, and you looked forward to that hour with him all week long.

He was brilliant. He was passionate. He was handsome. He was the sort of man people wrote novels about. And tonight, you were finally going to tell him how you felt about him.

Your older sisters had teased you about your preference of books to men for years. They said that reading too much had made you romanticize men to the point that no real one would ever suit you. But they'd married the first boys who showed interest in them and moved out of your family's cozy home above the bookshop as soon as they could. What did they know? They certainly didn't know about your Friday evenings with Leonard Bast.

He was your most treasured secret. That hour alone with him on Friday evenings was always the best part of your week, but it wasn't enough. You wanted more of him. You needed more of him.

He was always on your mind. When you read a new book, you wondered what he'd think of it. When you made dinner, you wondered if he'd like it. When you curled up by the fire to read, you imagined leaning your head on his shoulder. And sometimes in bed, when the fire died down and the chill of the night crept in, you wondered what it might be like if he were there to keep you warm.

It was a flawless plan, really. You'd take him into the storage room in the back to show him the pile of books scheduled to go out on a sale cart tomorrow, and offer him first shot at the bargains. Once Leonard had made his selections, you'd wrap them in brown paper so they'd be easier to carry, and slip in your favorite book of poetry. As a bookseller, you were typically against writing in books, but this was an exception. You'd written an inscription to him inside the front cover and included several notes throughout that you thought would be meaningful to him.

Writing your feelings on a page in a well-loved book felt much safer than just telling him how you felt.

You watched the clock and the door, waiting for him to hurry in like he always does. Even though he doesn't need to rush anymore, it seemed like he was always in a hurry to get here. You like to think it's because he was as happy to see you, as you were to see him.

Your face breaks into a smile when you spot his red ears holding up his ill-fitting hat, probably frozen from the cold December air. He steps inside, wipes his feet, and smiles at you.

"Mr. Bast! I was hoping to see you today."

"Me?" he asks, in mock-surprise, like he always does.

"Of course," you smile, keeping up your little game. The clock chimes, and you leave your place at the counter to lock up. Mr. Bast is the only customer in the store. He hangs his hat and coat on the rack as the lock clicks.

"Do you have a good one for me today?"

"Even better," you smile. "Follow me."

You lead him through the store and to the storage room, where a cart is packed with books that are priced to sell.

"What's this?" Mr. Bast asks.

"Sale cart," you explain. "Jimmy's taking it out tomorrow, in hopes of clearing out some inventory before the post-Christmas flood of unwanted gifts."

Jimmy, the teenage son of one of your father's friends, was an occasional employee. A few times a year, you'd pack up the cart of books that had been shelved for too long, and send Jimmy to sell them on the street. He was friendly and talkative, which made him an excellent salesman. He also had a very obvious crush on you, and your sisters had teased you about your "young lover" relentlessly when they found out.

This cart is what led Leonard to you. He'd spotted it on the street one day, bought all he could afford, and was given a business card with the store's address on it with the promise of more discounted books. It was quite a walk from his place of work, and he'd struggled to make it on time… until you developed your Friday routine.

"But the sale doesn't start until tomorrow?" he asks, picking up a book to inspect it.

"For you, it starts now."

"Is that fair?" he asks, worry on his face.

"Consider this a Favorite Customer Preview Sale. Tomorrow, people will buy random books for friends and relatives as Christmas presents, because they are inexpensive and easy to wrap and appear to be thoughtful. You are one of the few customers who will concern themselves with the content of the books, and not the fact that giving the gift of a book makes you look superior. Please, good sir, shop to your heart's content."

He looks from you, to the cart, and back to you. You sigh and try again.

"Mr. Bast, I am expected at my sister's house on Christmas Day. Her children are expecting a fun aunt who wants to play with them. If you do not leave this shop with an armful of books today, I will consider myself a failure of a saleswoman. And if I am a failure, I will be unable to enjoy my time with my sister's children on Christmas. Think of the children, Mr. Bast."

He laughs.

"Too much?" you ask, cracking a smile.

"Most definitely," he grins, finally stepping closer and inspecting the cart full of books.

With your assistance, he picks out five books to add to his collection. At this price, not even Leonard Bast can pass them up. He passes you a few coins, and you drop them into your pocket with a jingle.

You'd eventually noticed the frays in his clothing and his well-worn shoes and the loose seams in his hat. He hid them well, but he needn't hide them from you at all. You're a seller of used books. You know that a good story is a good story, no matter what condition the cover is in. The same applies to people.

"Shall I wrap these up for you?" you ask, trying to mask your nervousness.

"Alright," he smiles.

You take the books over to the table, where you keep the brown wrapping paper. You let him ramble about the one he's most excited about while you wrap his selections - plus the book of poetry. You distract him by mentioning another title that may be on the cart, and slip the gift into his stack when he goes to check. You hope it brings him back to the shop tomorrow, rather than a week from now. You can't wait to hear his thoughts on it.

He takes his wrapped package with a warm smile, which you return. If he only knew…

You make your way to the storage room's door, and he pauses to let you exit first. You reach back in to close the door after he enters the hallway, and when it clicks shut, you notice that he's staring upward.

Someone has put mistletoe in the doorway.

You look into his big brown eyes, an explanation on the tip of your tongue - you don't know how it got there, honestly - but no words are spoken.

You feel yourself drawn to him.

You lean in slowly, and he does too.

You close your eyes as your lips finally meet Leonard Bast's in a sweet, chaste kiss. Your heart flutters. Your brain buzzes.

You want to do this every day for the rest of your life.

You can't control your blissful smile as you pull away…

But Leonard Bast is not smiling.

Panic sets in. What's wrong? Were you bad at it?

"I'm sorry," he says. What is he sorry for? You both clearly wanted this. You've been dancing around it for a damned year. "I have a wife."

Your heart drops into your stomach.

"A what?"

"I have a wife. This isn't fair to her."

A wife? He's never mentioned a wife. You're sure of it. He's told you all about his parents, and his brother the lay-reader, and his two married sisters who were older and had never been very close to him. You absolutely would've remembered him mentioning a wife.

You felt faint. You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes, trying to focus on your breathing.

When you opened your eyes, Leonard Bast was gone.

Your father returned soon after. He found you in the hallway outside the storage room, sitting on the floor with tear-stained cheeks and staring into nothing. He thought you'd been attacked, and was preparing to summon the police when you finally found your voice. You were fine, you lied. Just had a bad day and a lot of demanding customers. It's nearly Christmas, after all, and people were desperate to finish their shopping.

He scraped you off the floor and took you upstairs to revive you with tea and biscuits. But it didn't help. Nothing helped.

Mr. Bast didn't come back.

You and your broken heart carried on, trying not to wonder what Leonard Bast would think of this book or that one. You tried not to worry about what he was doing, or who he was doing it with. You tried not to care. He was gone. He was nothing to you. Just a man you'd sold some books to.

Once upon a time, Leonard Bast had been your best-kept secret. Now he was just a ghost inside your head.

[keeponquinning]

OKAY SO THIS ISN'T PERFECT.

But it'll fucking do.

Fluff so safe to hear out loud.

[foundtherightwords]

(most of my fics are CC x OFC unless otherwise stated)

Tom Grant (Make Up)

Winter Light (AO3): angst, slow burn, sickfic, post-canon, non-explicit smut | 5 chapters + optional epilogue, 14.8k

Arthur Havisham (Dickensian)

The Road Forgotten (AO3): angst, slow burn, fix-it, post-canon, revenge, non-explicit smut | 14 chapters, 42.7k

Irresistibly Contagious (AO3): sequel to "The Road Forgotten", Christmas fic, fluff, found family | One-shot, 7k

Billy Knight (Lethal White/Strike)

The Quiet Chaos (AO3): angst, slow burn, developing relationship, post-canon, non-explicit smut | 10 chapters, 36.2K

The Simple Thought of You (AO3): sequel to "The Quiet Chaos", angst, childfree, proposal, non-explicit smut | 3 chapters, 9.2k

Ralph (Timewasters)

All Our Yesterdays (AO3): friends-to-lovers, slow burn, a bit of angst, time travel, post-canon, non-explicit smut | 14 chapters, 53.8k

Come, You Spirits (AO3): sort-of-sequel to "All Our Yesterdays", fluff, funny, spooky, established relationship | One-shot, 4.6k

Time Out in the Upside Down (AO3): "Stranger Things" x "Timewasters" crossover, funny | One-shot, 1.8k

Leonard Bast (Howards End)

Through the World's Far Ends (AO3): Leonard x Helen fix-it, World War I, angst, hurt/comfort | One-shot, 7.2k

Prince Paul (Catherine the Great)

The Firebird (AO3): fairytale AU, magic, adventure, slow burn, non-explicit smut | 16 chapters, 66.7k

Michael (Hoard)

Love, If You're Near (AO3): angst, hurt/comfort | One-shot, 6.8k

Derwin Grunauer (Overlord)

As the Sun Will Rise (WIP): post-WWII, Beauty and the Beast retelling | 21 chapters, ~82k

Hellcheer Masterlist

[arickaandherfictionalothers]

Joe Quinn f/os part one of two

Umbrella tag: Joe Quinn f/os

* means platonic or familial

Arthur Havisham*-Dickensian

Aricka and Arthur, a Dickens universe A-team

Koner- game of thrones

Aricka x Koner, a knight to guard her heart

Ralph *- Time Wasters

Aricka and Ralph, I’d travel time and space to be your sister

Jamie- Kin

Aricka x Jamie, we would’ve been timeless

Leonard Bast- Howards end

Aricka x Leonard, our own little love story

Grunauer- Overlord

Aricka x Grunauer, a soldier and his sweetheart

Enjolras- Les Miserables 2019

Aricka x Enjolras, with you my world has started

Prince Paul- Catherine the Great

Aricka x Paul, enchanted to meet you

Tom Grant- make up

Aricka x Tom, baby I love you

Billy Knight- C.B. Strike

Aricka x Billy, I’ll stand between earth and heaven for you

[rynwritesstuff]

question!

hi besties! i’ve got a question for you all!

i’ve only ever seen joseph in stranger things, but . . .

would anyone be interested in me having a go at writing some of his other characters?

i won’t be writing for joseph himself, and i won’t be writing for arthur havisham because he’s canonically gay, and i just feel like it’s not my place to write for him. but!! if you’d like to see leonard (howard’s end), paul (catherine the great), or maybe even ralph (timewasters), let me know!!

send me an ask or a message if you’re interested in me taking a crack at some other characters :)

[fujiihime]

Joseph Quinn's Other Characters Fics (Series/One-Shots) - I

I made a list of currently reading and recommended fics for Joseph Quinn's other characters here on Tumblr. All were beautifully written by amazing writers. These writers are incredible and full of brilliant ideas, so please visit their blogs and check all of their works. Happy reading! Don’t forget to comment and reblog their works. You may also reblog this list to share with everyone/blog mutuals. Thank you! (For 18+, MDNI)

Prince Paul (Catherine the Great)

Pick Your Poison | 2 | 3 by @punk-in-docs

Keep Watch Over The Door Of My Lips 

And The Stars Sighed In Unison

Lay No Claim | 2 by @the-suburban-blues

It Has Always Been You by @dingusfreakhxrrington

With Me Now by @the-suburban-blues

Our Duty & Birth Of 1st Child by @emmywrites-blog

Deserve Love Series | 2 | 3 | 4 | ED by @boohoo-clo

Thank You by @m7nson

Out Of The Dark by @creme-bruhlee

My Darling by @helpwhatsthis

Childish by @badmirvcle​ 

Eye for An Eye by @rocknrollbabe14​

Ralph (TimeWasters)

At Last | 2 | 3 | 4 | ED by @luv4fandoms

It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To by @brighteyedbushybrowed

Please & Darling by @no-mercy-bby

Wizard by @creme-bruhlee

To Be Loved by @stevies-corner

A Special Present For A Special Boy by @littlelioncub43

Who's A Good Boy? | 2 @mypoisonedvine​

Baby Boy by @historygeekfics

Show Me

Untitled by @thefreak-thebanished

A Life Well Loved by @eddiemunsonthebanished 

Words Of Advice | 2 by @ladyfogg

My Sweet Boy by @forays-into-fiction​ 

A Rivalry For The Ages by @ladybug0095​ 

The Dance by @stinkysam​ 

Tell the World by @x-its-funnier-in-enochian-x​

Busy Streets And Busy Lives @thefreak-thebanished​

Kinktober: Day13 - Face Sitting by @xcatnapsx​

My Way Of Life by @ @sadboyeddie​

Tom Grant (Make Up)

You Got Me by @mypoisonedvine

WindSwept by @ladyfogg

Lemons Lollipops and Salt | 2(WIP) by @cherrielip

Adore You by @inklore

5 Minutes In Heaven

A Couple Hours by @luvsouya

Little Thief by @dingusfreakhxrrington

Thunder by @loves0phelia

Maybe It's A Good Thing? | 2 by @dingusfreakhxrrington

Prompts | 2 | 3 by @ladylannisterxo

Welcome Home by @mypoisonedvine

Untitled by @ginger-mews

New Girl | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 by @xcatnapsx

I'm Home by @bluesfortheredj

Cheer Up by @x-its-funnier-in-enochian-x

Untitled | Prompt by @joemazzmatazz

I'm Not Her by @munsonxmayhem

Smashed by @joekeeryswife​ 

Rebound | 2 | 3 by @munsonxmayhem​ 

Another Sad Love Song by @rocknrollbabe14​  

Kisses from Cupid by @hawkinsbanishedhero​

His Past And His Future by @munsonxmayhem​ 

New Angel by @fxckadoodledoomunson​ 

Mr. And Mrs. Grant by @munsonxmayhem​

Tom Grant Series by @wheels-of-despair​ ​

Leonard Bast (Howards End)

A Friend Of A Friend by @the-suburban-blues

All I'd Ever Need @the-suburban-blues

As Stubborn As A Mule by @writing-fanics

Arthur Havisham (Dickensian)

The Arrangement | 2 | 3 (x M!Reader) by @ladyfogg

One Of Those Nights (x M!Reader) by @alex-drinks-blood

Untitled (xPlatonicF!Reader) by @dingusfreakhxrrington

Letters (x M!Reader) by @axailslink

Million Dollar Man (x F!Reader) by @lvlycheri

Not All Who Wander Are Lost (x M!Reader) by @lvlycheri

It's Okay (xPlatonicF!Reader) by @x-its-funnier-in-enochian-x

Please Don't Go (x M!Reader)

Untitled (x M!Reader) by @alex-drinks-blood​ 

Maybe Someday (x M!Reader) by @casettewrecked​ 

Untitled (x M!Reader) by @razzledazzlestuff​ 

Can The Past Save The Future (x M!Reader) by @stardancerluv​

Koner (Game of Thrones)

Only You | 2 | 3 by @creme-bruhlee

Night Watch by @historygeekfics

A Not-So-Knight and His Spellcaster | 2(WIP) by @brighteyedbushybrowed

Winter Nights | 2 by @ercklln

A Winter's Tale by @lyricswrittenbythesecretdreamer 

Dark Koner (Untitled) by @mypoisonedvine​

Note: I hope a lot more writers will write stories for these characters and I'm sure we're all excited to read more stories about it.

[heresathreebee]

Kinktober is almost upon us and I hope to get a lot of writing done now that I'm

TEMPORARILY UNEMPLOYED

(Voluntarily, don't worry)

Right now, I've got [Number] of fics for [Characters] below SO FAR THIS IS ONLY JOSEPH QUINN AND JOE KEERY CHARACTERS:

1 Kurt Kunkle from Spree (don't @ me, I haven't watched the movie bc I'm too scared and I would hate him in real life but THIS NEED BITCH WOULD BE A GREAT SUBMISSIVE)

1 Steve Harrington from Stranger Things solo (this one's verrry self indulgent 😘)

1 Eddie Munson X Reader X Steve Harrington threesome

5 Eddie Munson fics

2 Tom Grant from Makeup 2019 fics

1 Leonard Bast from Howards End (proper pretty boy, that one, I also havent seen the source material but fuck canon)

1 Prince Paul from Catherine miniseries 2019 (this little manchild can and will be tamed)

aaaand

1 Young!Ned Stark but it's also Joseph Quinn (because HEY the books I read some of them, they're grrrreat! He'd be a good Edmure Tully actually andimworkingonthwtseparatelyshhh)

We are at 13 ficlets and counting...

What's that? No most of them aren't finished! What do you take me for, a diligent author? Nah son I always put the cart before the horse

[wheels-of-despair]

Leonard Bast (Howards End) Masterlist

What You Deserve is a four-part story about Leonard Bast getting the happy ending he deserves. If I were a patient writer - which I am not - this would've been a slow burn. This story spans years, but it's told in snapshots, so you're just checking in on them once a year. (At Christmastime!) The main series is now complete, but blurbs set during their happily ever after will appear as they occur to me.

Part One: Until Next Friday Part Two: Is That Fair? Part Three: Rest Your Eyes Part Four: Keep Me Around

[keeponquinning]

spark of color amongst the grey — multi-chaptered masterlist

Leonard Bast x Nanny / Teacher Apprentice fem!Reader. 18+

Summary — You hope to be an educator, having always been a wonder to children, and wanting a better life for yourself and your family. Though your mother would wish you would show such passion in finding a husband, she is proud of you, nonetheless, at least earning yourself an apprenticeship. A much easier go at life than she had, doing odd jobs to support the family, to support you, one of the recent ones is taking care of little Robert Bast, son of Leonard Bast, who gained full custody of his son, an amicable arrangement with the boy's mother who provides financial support for the care of the boy and the occasional visit. The circumstances of the arrangement, of the child is an open secret and gossip, though according to your mother, he is a good man. Everything is well, until your mother grows ill and cannot fulfill her duties, forced into bed rest. But your family needs the financial help, and so, as the eldest of your family, you soon take over the job, taking care of little Bobby Bast and in that, get to know more of the boy's father as well.

Notes — Leonard Lives AU, and that baby boy is dark haired and brown eyed just like his daddy. Thank you to @quinnsmunson for helping to flesh this out, my own version of giving Lenny the happy ending he deserves, though he won't be getting it quite that easy. I'm excited for this! It's going to be multi-chaptered, and everything you'd expect from a period piece, longing, withering looks and gentle touch.

Warnings — slow burn, angst, fluff, things you would expect from a period piece, honestly. I did not research teaching apprenticeships much so use all your imagination folks.

Like this to be added to the tag list for future chapters!

M A S T E R L I S T ! Part One | Part Two

TAGLIST : @quinnsmunson , @etherealglimmer , @munsonology , @imaslutforcuddles , @mythicalea , @queengirl56 , @pollenallergie , @180presolutiondignity , @go-off-to-sleep-in-the-sunshine , @nightonblogmountain , @fxirybubble , @lunaapis , @bit-of-a-timelord , @electrolyteerien , @tussenmens , @angietherose , @missonlypost, @mythicalea , @originalstar1 , @quinnkeerys , @helloxoctober28, @winchester-angel , @bexreadstoomuch , @joesquinns , @slasherflickchick , @anaofthebarricade, @watercolourpainter , @harley1608 , @ladybug0095 , @joeqnz , @sosawmeinhalf , @chickensinrainboots , @boltonbritreads , @veuvemami , @daleyeahson , @aysheashea , @abigailelevier , @92keery , @rata-quinn , @manonluzon , @thirddeadlysin , @wakeupcocksuckers , @ladybug0095

[wheels-of-despair]

What You Deserve | Leonard Bast x You | Series Masterlist

Once upon a time, a boy entered a bookshop...

Part One: Until Next Friday Words: 1.5k Date: Friday, December 23, 1910

You were always rooting for him.

At the end of each day, when the grandfather clock approached ten minutes to closing time, your eyes would begin to dart between its ticking hands and the door.

Would he make it today?

About once a week for the last two months, a man would enter your father's bookshop with only moments to spare. He'd dart toward the discounted used books and start scanning the shelf from left to right, top to bottom, and when the clock would chime, he'd grab the first book in reach and bring it to the counter to purchase it.

You didn't know his name; only his face. He was a nervous sort of fellow who had wavy hair that you imagined would be very soft, and the biggest, most beautiful brown eyes you'd ever seen.

He didn't seem to have a preference in what he read; he'd just grab whatever he could when the clock announced closing time. The poor fellow had taken home some books that no one should have to take home. The world would be a boring place is everyone liked the same things, you often reminded yourself… but you still wondered if he found a way to enjoy them, or if he'd hated them as much as you had. You'd made note of his height and started putting the good ones where they might catch his eye, hoping he'd take home a treasure rather than drivel.

But today, it didn't look like he was going to make it. He wouldn't have anything new to read for Christmas. Or perhaps he didn't come this week because he'd be busy celebrating with his family in the coming days, he wouldn't have time to read. You'd be traveling to visit your sister soon, but you planned to take a book to read on the train. And another for while you hid in your room to avoid the caroling and the parlor games and the inquiry about your lack of romantic life. And probably another for the train ride home.

You sighed and closed the novel you hadn't read a word of in 9 minutes, and as your eyes drifted toward the door one last time before getting up to lock it… he appeared.

He burst in the door, out of breath as usual, but by the time he'd wiped his feet… that damned clock began to chime. His shoulders slumped, and he turned back to the door with an air of defeat. His sigh fogged the glass. He reached for the knob, ready to leave without so much as a look at the new stock you'd put up just for him.

"Wait."

He opened the door.

"Wait!"

He turned his head toward you, as if he couldn't believe you were speaking to him. You'd been longing to say more than your typical "Will this be all, then?" or "Enjoy!" that bookended every transaction since about the third time you'd seen him, but the words would never come. Not until now.

"You don't have to go."

"But the time…"

"It's alright," you smile. "You didn't even get to look today."

"But the shop's closed."

"I have to clean up anyway," you shrug. "People have been tracking in mud all day, it'll take me a while. You can take your time, for once."

His brow furrows. He bites his lip. "Are you sure, miss?"

"Of course," you smile. "If anyone questions it, we can say I saw a mouse, and that you bravely volunteered to protect me while I tidied up."

His eyes look suspicious, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "If you're sure?" he asks one more time.

"Please," you gesture toward the shelves he gravitates to every week. "I've just restocked the sale section, there should be plenty of new things to choose from."

He blushes, looks at the clock, and finally removes his hand from the doorknob. He wipes his feet again and walks cautiously, as though he expects you to change your mind and chase him out with your broom at any second. Instead, you lock the door to other customers and start sweeping the floor between the rows of packed shelves. It's cluttered, but it's clean and inviting. The shop feels as much like home to you as your actual home upstairs.

You watch your lone shopper out of the corner of your eye as you sweep, wanting desperately to know what he's looking for but not wanting to bother him.

He allows himself to browse for nearly eleven minutes, the longest amount of time he's ever spent in this shop. He brings his selection to the counter, and you set aside the broom you've been slowly sweeping with, so as not to rush him.

"Will this be all for you today?"

"Er, yes," he mumbles, digging through his pockets for a coin. You inspect the book with pride. It's one of your favorites; you'd placed in his eyeline hoping he'd find it.

"This is one of my favorites," you tell him.

"Is it?" He slides a coin across the counter.

"It is." You can feel your face flush as you write down the transaction in the ledger.

"Do you read a lot?"

"Whenever I can," you mumble to the page. You wanted to talk to him, fool, now talk to him!

"So do I," he says proudly.

You finally look up, and his eyes are sparkling, like he's begging you to ask.

"What do you like to read?" you ask.

You try your best to pay attention as the man launches into a passionate recap of what you suspect is everything he's ever read, but it's the tone of his voice rather than the words that transfixes you. This is the kind of man who reads not just to gather information or learn a new skill or to appear intelligent; he looks for meaning in every word. He allows stories to transport him to other places. He lets every book into his life in the hopes that it will change him in some way. His passion is intense, and infectious.

You suddenly feel guilty about every dud you've knowingly sold him.

He glances at the clock and stops talking, and you wonder if you've given the impression you weren't listening. You were. Perhaps not in the traditional sense, but you were.

"I should be going," he says with a nervous lick of his bottom lip. You don't want him to leave yet.

"Would you like me to wrap that for you?" You gesture to the book.

"That's alright, miss." He picks up his book, hugs it to his chest, and takes a step backwards toward the door. "Thank you."

It feels like he isn't quite ready to leave, either.

"You know," you begin, "you don't have to keep the books you don't like."

"Oh?"

"You can sell them back to us. I can't give you exactly what you paid for them, but it adds up quickly. Then, you can get better books."

"Is there something wrong with my books?" He looks hurt. Like you've insulted his taste, rather than the random things he's grabbed in a panic as the clock hurried him along.

"You forget that I see what you take home," you smile. "Can you honestly say you enjoyed the book you chose last week?"

His face flashes crimson. "It was… different."

"It was swill."

"Are you allowed to speak badly of the things you sell?"

"To my best customer? With no one else around? I should hope so."

You share a mischievous smile, and he steps forward again.

"I'm Leonard Bast."

You introduce yourself, and he repeats it back to you. You quite like the way your name sounds, coming from him.

"Thank you for today, miss, it was very kind of you. My work schedule does not allow for much browsing."

"What do you do for work, Mr. Bast, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I'm a clerk at an insurance firm."

"Do you like it?" It sounds dreadfully boring, but perhaps…

"Not particularly." Perhaps not. Displeasure clouds his face.

"If you could do anything at all, what would it be?"

"I…" his brow furrows. "I don't know? No one's ever asked me that before." Perplexed, he looks at the clock again. "I really should be going now. Thank you again."

He moves toward the door, and you want to kick yourself for scaring him away. Those are not questions for a person you've just met! You're supposed to talk about the weather! The new shop down the street! The price of mincemeat!

"Mr. Bast?"

"Yes?" He pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

"My father leaves early on Fridays to meet his mates at the pub. If you'd ever like a little extra time to browse..."

The clouds lift from his face, and his frustration is replaced by a genuine smile. "Until next Friday then, miss."

"Until next Friday, Mr. Bast."

[wheels-of-despair]

What You Deserve | Leonard Bast x You | Series Masterlist

Once upon a time, a boy entered a bookshop...

Part Four: Keep Me Around Words: 1.4k Date: Tuesday, December 23, 1913

"Happy Christmas!" you say from behind the counter, sending a young father and his daughter off with a new book of fairy tales.

You glance at the clock, thankful the day was nearly over, and scan the shop for stragglers. You spot two heads deep in discussion in the history section. You straighten the counter while you wait for them, so that you can close up as soon as possible. You're spending Christmas with your sisters in the country this year, and there's still packing to be done.

The duo soon wanders to the counter, and you catch a bit of their conversation about Alexander the Great as the book slides across the counter to you.

You announce the total, accept the coins, and mark the transaction in your ledger while the passionate discussion finally come to an end.

"I say miss, you've got quite a salesman here! Told me so much about the subject, I almost didn't need to buy the book!" The man guffaws at his own joke, and you smile politely.

"He gets a little carried away sometimes, but he's the only one who can balance the records properly, so I think we'll keep him," you wink. The man laughs again, and it echoes jovially through the whole shop as he picks up his purchase.

"You two have a Happy Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas," you both echo. When the door closes, you turn to each other.

"Is that the only reason you keep me around?" Len asks, a pout on his full lips.

"You're also very handsome," you tease, cupping his cheeks lovingly. He blushes and tries to look annoyed. "And quite possibly the most brilliant man I've ever met." He looks pleased with that one, and leans down for a kiss.

"Mr. Bast!" you gasp, putting a hand over your heart scandalously when he pulls away. "In broad daylight! In the middle of a shop! With the door unlocked! I never!"

"Except for yesterday," he remembers.

"And the day before," you supply with a grin.

The clock chimes, signaling the end of the work day. You lean in to kiss the tip of Len's nose before spinning on your heel to lock the door. You make haste in today's cleanup, eager to get back upstairs and prepare for your Christmas journey.

A year ago, your father had been quite surprised to come home from the pub to find that you'd hired a new employee. But as you were typically the most level-headed of his three daughters, he decided to see how it played out. And it had played out quite nicely for him. After he'd grown to trust Leonard, he began leaving for longer periods of time. Instead of spending a day or two at your sister's in the country, he was able to stay for a week. And the next trip, two weeks. He was enjoying his newfound freedom so much, after years of running the shop with just you as his second-in-command, he was preparing to officially retire.

At first, you'd intended to have your father ask around and find Leonard a job elsewhere. But by the time he came home, you had realized how fragile Len was, and you wanted to keep him as close to you as possible. He and your father got on well. Len was a learned man and a hard worker, two traits the older man appreciated.

It had taken a bit of effort to convince Len that living in his place of work did not mean that he had to work all the time. You weren't able to pay him much, but the comfort of a place to sleep and food to eat made a world of difference in him, both physically and spiritually. He'd had to sleep in the storage room for the first few months, but you made sure he had plenty of blankets to keep him warm.

You were the one keeping him warm now. You'd tried maintaining your distance at first, not wanting him to think his job was conditional upon your affection, but it was a doomed effort. After many nights of falling asleep together on the sofa with a pair of books left open and forgotten on your shared blanket, your father gave you a much-needed nudge. You were married in the fall, in a small ceremony held in a nearby church. Len's brother still wanted nothing to do with him, but his sisters came to the wedding. So did yours. The looks on their faces when you invited them to your wedding - to a man they'd never heard you mention before - were the best wedding gifts you could ask for. "But you've only just met him!" they protested. "I've loved him for years," you told them truthfully. "Not everyone needs to get married straight away."

"Are you ready to go up?" Len's soft voice brings you back to the present. You nod and put your broom away, double-checking that the door is locked, and lead the way upstairs to your living quarters.

Your father is asleep on a chair in front of the fire, an open book in his lap. You smile and leave him be as you proceed to your bedroom. Once shared with two sisters, and now shared with a husband. This way was much better.

Len hauls out the suitcase from beneath the bed, and you both quietly pack. The sister who lives in the country has invited everyone to stay with her for Christmas. You, Len, and your father will be catching a train first thing in the morning. The Basts will return soon after Christmas to reopen the shop, and your father will stay until after the New Year. He was quite enjoying being a grandfather to three rambunctious boys, who were a stark contrast to the three girls he'd raised.

"Is that everything?" Len asks quietly, looking through the items in your suitcase. You lift the corners of garments, counting to make sure you both have enough of everything for five days away from home.

"I think that's everything," you confirm. "Just this, and the presents."

Worry flashes across Len's face, and he sits on the edge of the bed.

"What's wrong, love?" you ask, stepping between his legs and gently lifting his chin to look up at you.

You know that look. Even after a year of living with you, you can't keep those thoughts from creeping in. The thought that this was all just temporary; that he didn't deserve what he had. That you'd come to your senses and throw him out any day, and he'd be workhouse-bound after all.

He'd voiced these fears only once, just before your wedding.

You wish you could banish those thoughts once and for all, but you settled on a more realistic goal: always being there to fend them off. Maybe one day, they would cease altogether. You made it your mission to make Leonard Bast feel happy and loved every day. Because that's what he deserves. He deserves affection and loyalty and unconditional love. He deserves hot meals and a comfortable bed and a strong cup of tea, made just how he likes. He deserves kisses on the forehead and the tip of his nose and all the books he could ever hope to read. He deserves someone to listen to him and encourage him and experience life with. Why is it so hard to make him understand that in your eyes, he deserves the world?

Len sighs, nibbles on his bottom lip, slowly blinks his big brown eyes up at you before answering.

"I've never been on holiday before."

You laugh and lean down to kiss his forehead, feeling your own dark thoughts lift instantly.

"Don't get too excited, love. You'll be ready to come home after about two days of listening to my sisters."

He chuckles and rests his head against your chest, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you close. You stroke his hair and smile, thinking about how lucky you are to have him.

"I'm so glad you didn't let me leave that day," he mumbles.

You know exactly which day he means.

"Not nearly as glad as I am, Len."

[wheels-of-despair]

What You Deserve | Leonard Bast x You | Series Masterlist

Once upon a time, a boy entered a bookshop...

Part Three: Rest Your Eyes Words: 2.1k Date: Friday, December 20, 1912

"I hope he loves it. Have a happy holiday, and do come again!"

Your smile fades as the man shopping for his nephew turns his back on you and heads for the door with a new storybook.

You hate this time of year.

Everyone is far too joyful. People spend money they don't have on things they don't need. And how many bloody wreaths does one city need? It's all too much, and there is no escape from it.

Jimmy, the occasional employee who once had a crush on you, is now terrified of you. He'd held up a sprig of mistletoe between you yesterday and boasted, "look what I found!" You'd smacked it out of his hand and left him wide-eyed and slack-jawed. You suppose you owe him an apology. He didn't know that you hate Christmas. He didn't know that the sight of mistletoe turns your stomach.

He didn't know about Leonard Bast.

No one did.

You'd tried to carry on as usual, but everything felt different after that day. Despite your efforts, people noticed. You suspect that your father had shared his theory that you'd been attacked to your sisters, who no longer teased you about your love of books or lack of romantic prospects. They mostly left you alone now. You'd pretended to be sick last Christmas so that you wouldn't have to see them. You wanted to wallow alone in your shame. Would it work again this year?

You left the counter to dust shelves while there was no one else in the shop. It was nearing the end of the day anyway. No one ever came in at the last minute except for him. And you hadn't seen him in a year.

The bell above the door chimes, and you cast your miserable thoughts aside and force a smile as you turn to greet your customer.

"Good eve--"

Your heart stopped.

He was thinner. His cheeks were hollowed, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that almost looked like bruises. His jacket was baggier and more frayed than the last time you'd seen it. And it was also wet, thanks to today's drizzle.

You knew you should be angry with him. That you should tell him to get out. But all you wanted to do was wrap him in a blanket and take him upstairs to warm up by the fire. He looked so cold. So miserable.

"I know you don't want to see me. And I'm sorry I've come. But…" He licks his chapped lips before continuing quietly. "I've a favor to ask of you. I know I have no right to. And I'm sorry for that too."

You swallow and try not to cry. "How can I help you today, Mr. Bast?"

He pulls a little leather-bound book from inside his jacket. Once upon a time, you'd thought that giving him this book of poetry, full of notes and underlined passages, would be a romantic way to tell him how you felt about him. Now, the sight of it makes you feel ill.

"I'm… I'm going to a place where I ought not take this. I wondered if you'd keep it for me?"

You stop staring at the book and meet his eyes, which are are pleading and apologetic.

"I'm not trying to sell it back. I just need someone to hold onto it for a little while."

"Why?" you croak.

"I just…" He sighs and starts over. "I was told I ought not take anything valuable or sentimental with me."

"Where are you going, Mr. Bast?"

He hesitates. The clock chimes, and he jumps in surprise, hugging the book to his chest. He looks like a frightened animal. What has the world done to you, Leonard Bast?

"Will you take it?" he asks, holding out the book to you. It's more worn than the day you slipped it into his parcel. His hands shake. You shove aside all the pain you've felt over the past year and make a decision.

"Only if you join me for tea, and tell me what's going on."

"I can't… I should…"

"Mr. Bast."

"Yes?"

"You broke my heart."

He flinches at your words.

"You broke my heart, and then you ran away. And now you've just walked back into my life and asked a favor of me. I think I deserve to know why."

He hangs his head and shifts uncomfortably.

"Will you please join me for tea?" you ask, a little softer this time.

His big brown eyes, which seem even bigger with his face so thin, look very glassy as he nods.

You move to lock the door, and he backs away as if he's afraid to touch you. You move slowly and deliberately as you lead him to your living quarters upstairs.

"Please," you gesture to the chairs by the fire, and he sits in your favorite one uneasily while you put the kettle on. He waits silently while the water boils, fidgeting with the frayed cuff of his jacket. You gather an assortment of food, hoping that he'll eat something, and place a tray in front of him.

He doesn't speak until you're seated across from him, and the tea is steaming on the table between you.

"I'm out of work." He stares at the food, but doesn't take anything. "I was told that my insurance firm was going under, so I took a position at the bank. And then the bank released me. I begged off my sisters for a while, until their husbands found out. Jacky left me for someone who could take care of her. She was right to."

So much for 'for richer and for poorer', you thought bitterly. He looks up, as if he'd heard your thought.

"I've sold everything… except this." He grasps the book you'd given him like he's holding onto it for dear life. "I can't take it with me. Would you please look after it for me? I'll try to come back for it one day. I'll pay you for keeping it safe, if I can."

"Where are you going, Mr. Bast?" you ask again, fearing the answer.

"A workhouse," he admits quietly, speaking to the floor. Your heart drops.

"Surely there's something else you can do?" you ask fearfully. When people go into workhouses, they rarely come out. And if they do, they're not the same. Hasn't he read the same literature on the subject as you?

He shakes his head in defeat, and all the breath leaves your lungs.

A knock at the door temporarily halts your turmoil.

"Excuse me for a moment," you say softly. You gesture to the food on the table. "Please, help yourself."

You cross the room and crack the door to see Jimmy. You'd forgotten he was fixing a wheel on the cart in the storage room. "Everything alright?" he asks.

"Just having tea with an old friend," you tell him in a hushed tone.

"Cart's ready. Need me to stick around?" He's peering over your shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of your guest. You shift into his way.

"No, thank you. You can go home for the night. I'll do the sweeping-up later."

You close the door before he can protest and return to Leonard.

He's eaten a few bites of a pastry and fallen asleep. His head rests against the chair's plush backing like yours often does, when you stop reading to rest your eyes for a minute that turns into an hour. You don't have the heart to wake him. Moving quietly as a mouse, you pick up a blanket and drape it over his sleeping form.

You sit back down to think.

The poor man has nothing. No job, no home, no wife. He is not yet forgiven for leaving out that little detail, but you cannot allow him to enter a workhouse. Leonard Bast is a bright young man with a brilliant brain. He's not built for breaking rocks.

If you can't find somewhere who needs to hire help, you'll hire him yourself. Your father has been longing to get out to the countryside more and breathe the fresh air, perhaps this could be his chance. Yes, Leonard could help you run the shop while your father takes a well-deserved holiday. It was just the two of you living here now, anyhow; your mother was long gone, and both sisters were happily married and living in big boring houses of their own. You could fix up the storage room and let him sleep there. Or would that be too cold? You could sleep in your father's room while he's away and let Leonard take yours. You could cook for him, and watch his cheeks and body fill out as they rediscovered proper nutrients. He could stay here as long as he needed.

The man may have broken your heart, but you would not let the workhouse break the man.

You were at the stove making dinner when he woke. His pale face went red immediately.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'll go, please forg--"

"Would you please fetch two bowls out of that cabinet?" you interrupt, gesturing vaguely in its direction without looking at him. He falls silent and obeys, bringing you the requested dishes.

You spoon hot stew into them as he stands there, confused.

"Take those to the table?" you smile. His brow furrows, but he does as you ask. You follow with a basket of bread and sit at the table. He squirms uncomfortably. "Please have a seat, Mr. Bast."

His eyes dart from you to the food and back again, like it's a trick. It reminds you of that first time you let him browse after the shop closed. You smile and wait for the battle going on inside his head to cease. Finally, he moves slowly toward the table, sitting lightly as if he's not sure he belongs there.

You close your eyes and say a prayer, thanking the Lord for your food, and your shelter, and for an old friend to share them with. When you open your eyes and meet Leonard's, they're brimming with tears.

He needs food more than you need answers, so you drop your eyes to your bowl and take a bite, hoping he'll do the same. He does. The meal passes in a comfortable silence.

He tries to leave again when dinner is done. "Thank you for dinner, although you ought not have been so accommodating after I overstayed my welcome. I should be going now, I've wasted too much of your time already."

"Mr. Bast, I'm not done with you yet."

"You're not?" he asks, taken aback.

"Would you sit with me a while?" You gesture to the chairs by the fire, where he'd slept the evening away. He agrees, and takes his seat.

You sit across from him and stare for a moment, wondering where to begin. The man is a walking tragedy, but you don't want to make him feel like one.

"Mr. Bast, you know that I care for you."

"I don't deserve it," he says quietly.

"You don't deserve the workhouse."

"I do," he whispers tearfully. "It was my own fault. I listened to advice I should not have listened to. I lost my job, I drove Jacky away because I couldn't provide, I drove my family away because I was a beggar and an embarrassment, and I hurt you because I lied. I deserve it."

"Why did you not tell me that you were married?" you ask.

"I wasn't," he admits. "Not really. We told a lie so that we might live together. She had no one else to care for her."

"Did you love her?"

He looks at the carpet and doesn't answer.

"Because I loved you," you confess, your voice cracking.

"I know." He sniffs and reaches for the annotated book of poetry you'd given him a year ago. He opens it to a bookmarked page, skims silently, and closes it. A tear streams down his cheek. "I read it every day. I never stopped thinking of you, even though I had no right to."

You want to dry his tears and hold him. Instead, you wrap your arms around yourself and try not to let your own tears fall.

"I'm sorry," he says, rising from his seat. He deposits the book on the table and steps toward the door.

You're in front of him before you realize you've left your chair. You stand defiantly between him and the door. His eyes are red, tears threatening to fall, lip quivering.

"Please don't leave me again," you beg. "Stay here, we'll find you work. We'll find you a place to stay. We'll figure things out."

"Why would you want to help me, after the way I've hurt you?" he asks pathetically.

"I never stopped thinking of you, either."

[keeponquinning]

A little preview of a Leonard Bast x fem!reader fic I'm conjuring in my mind where Leonard didn't die, and mainly raising his son, who is NOT BLONDE but the spitting image of his daddy, PLEASE AND THANK YOU.

I haven't written anything yet but this little snippet popped in my head so some version of it, but for now, the most Leonard i've heard this AI spit out, enjoy.

[foundtherightwords]

Through the World's Far Ends

Pairing: Leonard Bast x Helen Schlegel (Howards End)

Summary: Several years after his ill-fated affair with Helen, Leonard enlists to fight in World War I, hoping it would put an end to his miserable life. However, when he runs into Helen again in the trenches of Passchendaele, Leonard discovers that life may still be worth living after all.

Warnings: angst, mentions of war, violence, and injuries, implied infidelity, suicide ideations

Word count: 7.2k

If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

Those lines echoed in Leonard's ears as he looked over the mud-churned fields of Passchendaele that rainy October day of 1917. Had he read them ten years ago, back when he was still a boy of barely twenty-one with a head full of dreams and a heart full of poetry, he would have marveled at their beautiful ideal, their quiet exultation. Now, he couldn't help but snicker at them for their hopeless sentimentality. If there was anything of England in these foreign fields at all, it probably wouldn't be the England that pretty, posh Rupert Brooke was thinking about. No, it would be the England that Leonard himself was familiar with, the England of damp basement dwellings, of grimy streets, of cold and hunger, and long, tedious nights.

And if he should die, there would be no one to think of him. Not his brother and his two sisters, who had long ago given up on him. Certainly not Jacky, who would never have let him enlist had she still been alive. Poor Jacky. She had been rather excited when the war first broke out. To be honest, so had he. There had been a fevered exhilaration in the air, a sense of purpose in everything and everyone, hectic but thrilling at the same time, which had distracted the two of them, for a moment, from the miserable humdrum of their existence.

Still, for all that excitement, Jacky wouldn't hear of him enlisting, even though it would've at least solved their immediate financial problem—the Army pay wasn't much, but it would be something for her to live on. But she had burst into tears whenever he mentioned it. "No, Len!" she'd kept saying, clinging to him as if afraid Lord Kitchener would come to personally snatch him away. "If something happened to you, how would I live?"

Leonard had been tempted to say that if he should be killed, she could count on a war widow's pension, but Jacky had become so hysterical that he'd only given her a clumsy hug and said, "All right, Jacky, I won't go," while trying to hide the bitterness in his voice.

When she succumbed to the consumption that had been slowly eating away at her, a little over a year later, Leonard had sincerely mourned her. She had been his constant companion, for better or worse, for nearly ten years, and when she was gone, she left a void, if not in his heart then at least in his life. While she was alive, he had to find ways to provide for her, to take care of her. Without her, he was without a purpose.

After Jacky died, he'd thought that he would simply flicker out and die too. But he found that it was not so simple. Living had become a habit, and like any habit, it was difficult to shake off. And so he had enlisted, only waiting a decent period after Jacky's funeral so it wouldn't seem he was defying her memories. He didn't much care about the war. He only thought that if he couldn't give up his life on his own, he would let others snuff it out. He completed his training and was sent to Belgium just before conscription was introduced, in January 1916.

But even in the war, death eluded him. His health, which had suffered from malnourishment and the smog and grimes of London, actually improved thanks to Army food and regular, if strenuous, exercises. He didn't mind the cold and the wet and the mud of the trenches. And though he had seen men die in front of him, men blown to bits by shells, men cut to ribbons by barbed wires, men blistered and blinded and cooked inside out by mustard gas, and men who drowned in the mud because their friends were forbidden to pull them out, though death was all around him, he remained more or less untouched.

To be fair, he didn't exactly go looking for death. He thought that before he died, he should make himself useful and do what he could to help others, so he did. He followed orders without asking questions, bent his head under the explosions and the gas and the horrible weather and did as he was told. He tried not to shoot when he could help it, and when he did shoot, tried not to aim at anyone in particular. He didn't want that on his conscience as well. He preferred the menial work, never shying from digging and repairing the trenches, acting as a stretcher bearer, and carrying supplies to the front.

What he really wanted was to stop thinking. Once, a long time ago, during the darkest time of his life, and also the best time of his life, he'd wished for something to do, to stop him from thinking. Now he believed that if he toiled hard enough, made himself tired enough, he would be able to stop thinking. It didn't quite work yet. Even on days when he'd only had an hour or two of sleep, the thoughts kept coming, slowly but inexorably—about death, about Jacky, about things he'd done and hadn't done, about things he had buried deep in his mind—all rattling inside his skull like lunatics rattling the bars of their cages. The one thing he didn't think about was the future, for there was no future. The war may never end, and for some people, it would never end. Leonard had seen enough wounded men and shell-shocked men and men with scars deep within them, where nobody could see except for those who knew where to look, and he understood that those men would never come back from the war, regardless of what happened to them. Sometimes he wondered if he would be one of them.

Such thoughts were presently crowding his head as he turned over in the dugout, trying to find a comfortable position. There was a lull in the racket of gunfire and shellfire and rain, and he wanted to get some rest—not sleep, he had forgotten what it was like to really sleep for months now—before nightfall. A new shipment of supplies had just been brought in that day on mules and wagons, and Leonard's infantry unit would be assigned to haul these to the front after dusk fell.

The other men in the dugout were squabbling. Leonard didn't mind the bickering. In fact, he welcomed their voices to drown out the thoughts in his head. It appeared Percy Armitage had received some gramophone records in the post that had come with the supplies, but due to some accident or carelessness, the sleeves had been misplaced, and now they were arguing which was which and which to play first. The men were often sent little gifts like that from home, and these were freely shared amongst them all—it was how Leonard became acquainted with the works of Rupert Brooke and other war poets. Though books these days no longer held the allure and enchantment they once had for him, they were something to relieve the boredom in the trenches. All his life, Leonard had wished he could discuss books and music and culture with easiness, an easiness that did not come easily for men of his class. He thought, with a grim sense of smugness, that he could do so now, provided that the books were about the horrors of war.

"Lads, lads," Percy, a veteran of the Boer War and therefore older than most of them, was saying, like a stern but benevolent father to his children. "You shall all get a turn. But these are my records, and I'm going to choose first."

There was a scratching sound of the needle being lowered onto the record. The first soft notes floated out, and as if by magic, all the men fell silent, enraptured by the unimaginably normal, everyday sound of music.

But Leonard was mistaken—the music wasn't soft, not at all. For a moment, it seemed the shellfire and the thunder were coming in the middle of the day instead of at night as usual, as the first notes did not float but boomed from the gramophone, followed by bursts of what sounded like rapid gunfire that chased each other around the cramped dugout. While the music built and built, Leonard could almost hear the chill wind that blew across the battlefield, feel the drumming of the rain on his skin, and see, under his closed eyelids, the men jumping up from the trenches during a raid or slinking across No Man's Land for a reconnaissance in a moonless night. Herr Beethoven had never been to the trenches of Belgium, so how the devil did he capture it so well in his music? For it was, indeed, Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, such as Leonard hadn't heard in years and years.

And, as though stirred by the music, memories surfaced—the gallery at Covent Garden, the music halls, the evenings he could get away from his desk at Porphyrion early enough to lose himself for a few hours in music and culture, but he never quite managed to lose himself in it, not really, no matter how diligently he attended the operas and the concerts, no matter how many books he read, he knew all the names but could never form his own opinion about them. And another memory, one of those he had buried away—a girl, her hair coming loose under her hat, her eyes, so bright they lit up the dreary interior of the Prince Regent's Hall, transfixed on the orchestra while she swayed slightly to the music, her elbow almost touching his a few times.

For the first time in seven years, Leonard allowed himself to think of her a little.

Helen. Miss Schlegel. His Miss Schlegel. No, not his. Never his.

He'd looked at her with wonder and envy then, in the gloom of the Prince Regent's Hall, like a failed artist looking at a painting in the National Gallery. Why did the music move her so? What was she hearing that he wasn't? What did one have to do to acquire such passion? Even back then he'd known, this was something he could never attain, something he could never be, and that was what had drawn him to her. He'd always tried to pursue beauty, always on some hopeless quest for it, but only ended up getting sucked down into the mud—not that different from where he was now, really.

In the past seven years, he had become quite adept at not thinking about her. Whenever he saw something that reminded him of her—and a lot of things reminded him of her—he would immediately find something else to think of, was there anything left in the cupboard for supper, whether he could persuade the landlord to hold off the rent collection for another week, whether it was too soon to write to one of his sisters, Blanche or Laura, again, to ask for money. He'd think and think furiously until all thoughts of Helen were pushed from his mind. He did it almost automatically now. It had turned into a habit, like everything else. 

But here, in this cramped and clammy dugout, that habit had deserted him. Even some hours later, when he lifted the heavy pack full of hot rations on his back and walked out into the rain and the cold, she still occupied his thoughts, slow and dull as they were from lack of sleep. He stepped on the duckboards that crisscrossed the muddy landscape, one small figure in a long snaking line of similar figures, while shells and bullets whizzed by him, while the sweet stink of rot and the acrid smell of mustard gas assaulted his nostrils, while rain drummed on his tin hat, but he hardly noticed any of them. His mind was filled with Helen, Helen when he'd first seen her at the Prince Regent's Hall, Helen in her bright dining room at Wickham Place, her head tipped to the side as she urged him to talk about his walking, enthusiasm aflame in her eyes. And most of all, Helen when he'd last seen her. He heard her gently chiding voice, saw her face full of sympathy when she discovered the squalor in which he and Jacky had been living, felt the force of her righteous fury as she tried to help them, dragging them to confront the man she believed had been responsible for their misfortune—Henry Wilcox, the then-fiancé of Helen's sister, Margaret.

He thought of other things as well, things buried even deeper. He remembered the fire-lit room in the hotel in Oniton, the utter shame and despair he'd felt when he revealed the truth about Mr. Wilcox and Jacky to Helen, the tears in Helen's eyes as she drew him to her, her arms around him, comforting and seeking comfort at the same time, her mouth trembling under his, their bodies finding each other like two magnets, or perhaps two drowning victims in a heaving sea.

He wondered if she ever thought of him.

Probably not.

He wondered if she was still living in Germany. Margaret, Mrs. Wilcox, had told him so, on that freezing spring day seven years ago, when he trudged to the Wilcoxes' residence on Ducie Street in the hope of finding someone, anyone, to whom to confess his sin. Upon finding out from Mrs. Wilcox that Helen had been traveling in Germany and perhaps planning to stay there indefinitely, the confession died on his lips. He'd thought he knew her reason for staying away. Helen had asked her brother to send him a check of five thousand pounds, but the sight of it, with his guilt still so fresh in his mind, had burned Leonard so much that he'd returned it. At Ducie Street, he'd looked into Mrs. Wilcox's sharp and sad eyes, wondering what she knew, how much Helen had told her. Fear and shame had choked his voice, and he had gone back to his basement, unabsolved.

He had been so desperate, the remorse corroding him so relentlessly that he'd almost confessed to Jacky. But he'd held himself back. If he hadn't managed to control himself with Helen, then at least he had to control himself with Jacky. Telling her would have achieved nothing except to selfishly force her to bear the pain with him, and Jacky wouldn't have been able to bear it. Leonard had argued with himself that Jacky's affair with Mr. Wilcox might have driven him and Helen into each other's arms, but it didn't change the fact that Jacky had been the innocent party in his affair with Helen. It would have been cruel to deprive her of that innocence. And so Leonard had kept quiet and was determined never to think of Helen again, until now.

The irons of guilt were still there, but time and the horrors he'd witnessed in the war had blunted the edges, leaving only a kind of bittersweet nostalgia. Yes, he had done wrong and lost control of himself. But he had also gotten an adventure out of it, had seen and touched and tasted something of beauty. And hadn't he paid enough for his crime in the seven years since? So perhaps that was all right. He only wished Helen didn't have to pay as well.

Lost in his memories, Leonard didn't notice a shell exploding right next to him. He didn't feel the shrapnel hit him. He was only momentarily confused when the world went mute and turned sideways, but even that confusion didn't last long, for he soon had his answer when he fell off the duckboards and sank into the mud.

His last thought was, I hope they don't pull me out.

And then, the mud came over his head, and finally, mercifully, he stopped thinking.

***

In the field ambulance of the Women's Hospital Corps, Helen Schlegel was sitting down with a cigarette. What she really wanted was some hot cocoa, to have the thick sweet taste of it remind her of lazy evenings at Wickham Place, curled up on the bed with Meg and Tibby, talking about their day, laughing over nothing at all, in those carefree years that seemed a lifetime ago. But the supplies had run out, so she had to make do with a cigarette. She had been on her feet for nearly fourteen hours, and had only had about three hours of sleep before that, though she hardly felt tired anymore. Exhaustion was now a state of being, and she had gotten used to it, just as she had gotten used to a lot of things since joining the Corps two years ago. Even after the main Women's Hospital closed in Paris in 1915 and a new one opened in London, she had elected to stay with the field hospital, despite Meg's pleas for her to come home.

If Helen was honest with herself, she would admit that she was rather apprehensive about returning home. She hadn't stepped foot on English soil in seven years. When the war broke out, she had decided to stay in Munich, where she had been living at the time—after all, she was half-German, and she felt that to turn her back on Germany would equal turning her back on her own late father. Besides, there was a huge upsurge of anti-German hatred in England, as Meg had written to her. Tibby had had some trouble when enlisting due to his German last name. But it soon became clear that she could no longer go on living in Germany, if for nothing else than the simple reason of food shortage. Her German cousins were struggling themselves and could not help. So Helen had gotten on a train with every intention of returning to England, when her route brought her to Paris and the Women's Hospital there. Suddenly she'd found a place where she could be of use, since she spoke French and German and could help both patients and doctors. When Helen wrote to tell her sister she was staying, Meg had come to Paris herself, looking thin and worn-out, with gray in her hair. Her husband, Henry, had recently died. Henry's children, who had never quite accepted their father's second marriage, had kept their distance, and Meg had been living by herself in Howards End. Helen had briefly considered coming home to keep her sister company, but she'd decided she could do more good on the battlefield. So she'd told Meg to take care, and stayed.

When asked about her family, Helen always said that she'd lost her husband in the Somme. It was easier than the truth, though she believed that her fellow nurses and the doctors would not care or judge her if they knew. They were all women, most of them her age or older than her, but not by much, some younger, eager-eyed graduates from Oxford and Cambridge, and had seen a lot in their training. Looking at them, Helen wished she had gone to college, had done something more worthwhile with her youth. Oh, she had filled her days with plenty of pursuits, certainly, but what good had those done her, or anybody else, for that matter? Quite the opposite, in fact. It had all been frivolous, the meetings, the causes, the anger, and had led only to heartache and tragedy, not only for herself but for her family and for others as well. Yes, one good and beautiful thing had come from all that, but it was a miracle that it had existed at all, and Helen had to remind herself that the result of beauty did not absolve her of the sin she'd committed in creating it. She supposed it was why she had been so keen on staying at the front to help the wounded. She wished to atone.

And here was another chance for atonement—some stretcher-bearers were trudging toward the ambulance tent, their gait heavy and plodding. Helen sighed. She wasn't expecting to get any sleep—nighttime at the front was rarely quiet—but she'd had a letter from Meg and had been hoping to read it. Well, it could wait. She took one last drag of her cigarette, stubbed it out, and went out to meet the men.

When she first laid eyes on the form lying on the stretcher, in the gloom at the entrance of the tent, Helen thought the bearers were playing a practical joke and bringing them a load of sandbags. As they walked further into the light, she saw that it was not sandbags but a man, a man almost completely encased in mud. There were orders not to stop for anyone who fell off the duckboards, since doing so would hold up the line, but the stretcher-bearers explained that this man had been carrying hot rations, and the others, wanting to save his pack, had pulled him out along with it. The hot food had been recovered, so now here was the man—saved almost as an afterthought. Lucky bastard.

The women of the Corps didn't care who the wounded were, British or French or German, or why they were saved. So the mud-cased man was rolled off the stretcher onto a temporary bed. Helen and another nurse, Vera, who had left her history study at Queen's College in Cambridge to train with the Voluntary Aid Detachment, started picking off the mud in bloody chunks, dropping them into a bucket by the bed, and wiping off the residue with damp sponges. The man was still breathing, his chest moving up and down rapidly.

Vera removed the man's clothes with scissors and sucked in a breath. "He's got a lot of shrapnel in his legs, Helen," she said.

Helen continued to wash the man. "There's a lot on his back as well. I think he's going to need some morphine."

"I'll get it," Vera said and walked briskly off.

Under the sponge, the man shivered. "You seem to have a knack for finding me at my worst, Miss Schlegel," he said.

His voice was hoarse, clogged with mud, but it rang a bell in Helen's mind, a bell from far away and a long time ago, a time when she'd cared about music and art and social justice and fighting against the likes of Henry Wilcox. It had nothing to do with this world of mud and blood, when all she cared about was to help these men—boys, really—and to give them a little comfort while it still mattered. The war had simplified a lot of things for her. But apparently not enough, for here was the past, coming back for her in the form of—

"Mister Bast?" she asked, not quite believing it. "Leonard Bast?"

With trembling hands, she picked off the clay that had dried on his face like a death mask and gave him a quick wipe of the sponge. A pair of brown eyes, gentle and patient like those of a cocker spaniel's, blinked at her from under long lashes clumped together with mud.

"Good evening, Miss Schlegel," he said, with great difficulty.

Helen bolted up from the bed, heart hammering as if someone had trapped a machine gun in her chest.

Vera brought the morphine. "Are you all right, Helen?" she asked. "You're looking quite pale."

"I need some air," Helen managed to reply, before walking away, ignoring the bewildered look tinged with hurt in the brown eyes of the wounded man.

She ran out of the tent, into the cold and rain outside. The sky was a faded, patchy black cloth, lit up by the shells that flew and fell and exploded like fireworks. She couldn't tell if those shells came from the German side or the British side. She could only pray they didn't find their targets. A horrible smell hung in the air, the same smell that clung to her clothes and her hair and her sleep, the battlefield smell of death and gunpowder and mustard gas, but she breathed it in anyway, trying to clear her head and her heart.

Her first instinct was to weep, weep for the broken body covered in mud and the ruined, wheezing voice. Occasionally, she did weep over the wounded boys that came through the hospital, wept at the look in their eyes, sometimes imploring, sometimes reproachful, and at her own helplessness. But then came a burst of absurd joy, brighter than the shells exploding over her head. What did she have to be joyful about in this world, where boys were sent to die senselessly, meaninglessly? For a moment, she didn't care. He's here! Alive and—perhaps not well, exactly, but as well as could be! For a moment, she was that carefree girl again, curled up in bed with her brother and sister, comforted in the certainty that tomorrow would be exactly the same as today.

In the past seven years, if she thought about Leonard at all, it was often with regret and remorse. It was not that she wished she had behaved differently or things had turned out another way—no, never that. But she wished she could have given him some peace and let him know she never blamed him, so he mustn't blame himself. For she knew now what agony he'd lived through in all those years. One look at those eyes, so timid and frightened as they settled on her, and she knew. Yet there had been joy in those eyes as well, the same joy coursing through her that made her want to both laugh and cry.

Well, he was here now. If she wanted to let him know all that, she could. And she was finished with running away.

She went back inside. Vera was still washing Leonard's back, wiping away the seemingly inexhaustible mud. Helen took the sponge from her. "Let me do it," she said.

"Are you sure?" Vera asked. "You were very pale back there."

"I'm fine now. Go on, take your break." She handed Vera her pack of cigarettes.

With one last quizzical look at Helen, Vera pocketed the cigarettes and went out.

Leonard's eyes lit up as Helen sat down by the bed, and she felt her heart constrict, sweetly, painfully, in her chest.

"I thought you were a dream," he croaked.

"Don't try to talk," she said. It came out harsher than she'd intended. She asked him to move his fingers—good—move his toes—not good—turn his head—not so far, good—and told him she was going to remove the shrapnel now, short, business-like instructions and explanations, same as she did with all the wounded men.

"Have you been here all this time?" asked Leonard.

"We've been in Flanders since last year, yes."

He let out a small exhale, like a sigh, or perhaps a little laugh, amused at the twist of fate that had brought them together yet again.

"You're not pleased to see me," he said.

Helen reached for the tweezers, steadied her hand, and delicately picked a scrap of metal out of his flesh. "Don't be silly. I was shocked, that's all. It's not every day one finds a friend in a cake of mud."

"Is that what we are—friends?"

Were they? She didn't know what else to call him, what name she could give to the connection between them, fragile and near invisible yet indestructible as a strand of spider web. Henry Wilcox used to call Leonard her protégé, but she'd always hated how condescending that sounded. What then? Her lover? She didn't love him. What had happened between them that agonizing, intoxicating, magical night seven years ago was fueled by many things—pity, loneliness, even anger and a thirst for revenge—but not love. When she thought she'd fallen in love with Paul, Mr. Wilcox's youngest son, it had been madness. With Leonard, it had been madness as well, though a very different kind. She wasn't even sure if she was capable of loving someone in that way. Now, though, with her heart in turmoil and her hands shaking so much she was afraid she couldn't remove the shrapnel from his flesh without hurting him, Helen was no longer so sure.

So—a friend, then. It was inadequate, but it would have to do. She forced herself to say, as cheerfully as she could, "Yes, of course."

"I thought you'd be in England."

"I decided I would be more useful here."

They spoke politely, expressionlessly, like two passing acquaintances chatting at a train station's waiting room over cups of tea.

"How is—how's your family? Your brother and sister?"

"Tibby was wounded in Thiepval and was sent home last year. Meg is well. Her husband died, so she and—and Tibby are living at Howards End now. It's the Wilcoxes' country home, in Hertfordshire," she added, remembering that Leonard had never heard of Howards End.

Leonard was silent, then—"I'm sorry about Mr. Wilcox."

"I'm sorry for Meg. I've never liked him." Though she had come to understand Meg's love for Mr. Wilcox and no longer blamed the man for what happened with the Basts, Helen could never like him, personally. "How is Mrs. Bast?"

"She died, too," he said, his voice muted. "Consumption. Two years ago."

The tweezers froze between Helen's fingers. "Oh, Mr. Bast. I'm dreadfully sorry."

Leonard tried to shrug, but couldn't. They both fell quiet for a while. Helen thought about those who had gone and those who remained, like themselves, and how tangled their lives were, still. She also thought that Leonard had changed. Gone were his easily wounded pride, the bristling armor he clutched close to his person to protect himself from the world, and his desperate attempt at dignity. Now he gazed upon the world with more confidence, or perhaps simply with indifference, less troubled about what others thought of him. But he was sadder as well—indefinitely sadder, with that same faraway look in his eyes that she had seen in all of the wounded men that had gone through the hospital. She bent over his muddy body again.

"This large bit of shrapnel will have to come out under anesthetics," she said. "It can wait until the morning."

She finished getting out all the pieces of shrapnel she could, and slathered some antiseptic paste on the wounds. His body had changed as well. He was still thin and pale, but there was strength and a certain wiriness in him, and his paleness was simply due to the lack of sun, not from ill health. Muscles that she hadn't noticed before stood out in his back and shoulders. Then she realized she was caressing his back, blushed—and here she thought she'd forgotten how to blush—and pulled her hand away.

Leonard trembled again and grimaced. "I think—I think I'm getting my feelings back."

"Oh dear, how careless of me!" cried Helen. "I forgot—I'll give you some morphine for the pain." She injected the morphine, chattering inanely all the while, "It's good that you're feeling pain, you know. That means no nerves are damaged. But your leg is broken. I think you have a blighty one here. You'll have to go back to England." He looked away with a deep sigh, his eyes darkening, and didn't answer her. "You're not pleased about going home, Mr. Bast?"

"There's nothing for me to come home to."

If she wished to atone, then here was her chance. Yet for all her remorse, Helen had never once imagined what the scene of confession would look like, what she would say, what he would say. She took a deep breath, steeling herself.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bast—Leonard," she said.

Some light came back to his eyes when she called his name. "Sorry for what?"

"For running off that day—that morning—after—after—Oniton. For not explaining things afterward."

"There is nothing to explain." The light in his eyes dimmed again.

"Yes, there is. There is a lot to explain. Such as why I sent you that check—which, by the way, why did you send it back?"

"I told you, I didn't want your charity," he said through gritted teeth.

Helen smiled inwardly. Still that pride. So he hadn't changed after all, not that much. "It wasn't charity, you silly boy," she said, the term of endearment coming to her naturally. "I was—I was trying to right a wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes, I did. I ruined your life."

"And I ruined yours," he said. "So I suppose we're even."

Helen gazed at him for a long, long time. He looked back straight at her. He had only done so once before, and when she caught the blaze in his eyes, the memory of their night came back, giving her strength. Eventually, she said, "You didn't ruin my life, Leonard. You have given me the best thing I could ever hope for."

And while Leonard looked on, puzzled, she retreated to the nurses' station in a corner of the tent, in search of Meg's letter.

***

Leonard watched her go. He'd considered refusing the morphine. The pain didn't bother him much. It was like the little irons, the ones that used to scorch his insides whenever he thought of Helen, had returned, only they were on the outside of his body now. Outside pain was much easier to bear. But while his mind was shrugging off the pain, his body couldn't, and his flesh jumped and writhed where the shrapnel had cut it, which was everywhere, inhibiting his breath, his speech. The morphine relaxed him, but it washed over his mind like the waves of some dark sea, making his head swim, making him afraid this had all been a dream.

It had been like a dream, when her voice came to him through the thick mud clogging his ears and the deafening ringing left by the explosion. If he hadn't been thinking of her just a moment before, he wouldn't have recognized that voice. It had seemed so impossible, so implausible, that she should be here. Even when darkness was lifted from his eyes and he saw her face bending over him in the lamplight, he still couldn't believe it.

He'd been anxious that she would not want to see him. When she ran off, leaving him with the other nurse, the one with the blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun under her white cap, he'd wanted to cry out, to stop her from leaving. She had left him once before, and he felt he would die if he let her leave again. But he couldn't find his voice, couldn't move. And when she came back, she remained brusque, as though she was angry. He couldn't blame her. She probably wanted nothing to do with him. But her hands were gentle as they moved over his wounds, and Leonard had allowed himself a sliver of hope.

His cheeks burned when he realized he was lying bare in front of her, with only a blanket covering his middle. If it didn't hurt so much, he would have laughed, too, laughed at himself for still feeling shy with her, after all that they had been through together.

She was coming back now, holding a small photograph, which she gave to Leonard. The photograph showed a child, a boy, about six or seven, wearing a sailor suit, with soft dark curls falling over his forehead. There was something vaguely familiar in the serious expression with which he was looking at the camera. Leonard thought perhaps it resembled Helen's, but he couldn't be sure.

"I should've stayed with him," Helen said, "but I couldn't stand by and do nothing while all this war effort is going on, so he's with Meg and Tibby at Howards End. His name is Leopold," she added, her voice slightly breathless. "I call him Leo."

"I don't understand," Leonard said. Was she trying to tell her that she was married? He glanced at her empty fingers, which told him nothing—nurses probably had to keep their hands empty and clean at all times. He tried handing the photograph back to her. She didn't take it.

"He's your son, Leonard," she said. "Our son."

Leonard lifted startled eyes to her face. She nodded, once. He looked at the photograph again. Yes, he saw it now. The familiar expression, which he'd thought to be Helen's, was his own. Those rounded, solemn eyes were his own.

Suddenly the irons came back, all sharp-edged and burning, as though Oniton had only been the night before. In the child, he saw all the pains, the fears she had gone through—that he had put her through. This was the real reason she stayed away, the reason she couldn't come home. His fault, his, his. The blanket, the lamp, the tent, Helen's eyes, they were all bearing down on him, crushing him. He couldn't breathe. He struggled weakly against the bedclothes, trying to get away from Helen, but his treacherous body refused to move.

Then he felt her hands on his shoulders, gently but firmly pushing him back down, and heard her voice by his ear. "Leonard, calm yourself," she was saying. "You didn't do anything wrong. I do not blame you. I am not angry. Please, calm down before you tear open these wounds again."

His desperate eyes searched for Helen's face. She was smiling at him, a small, tentative smile, fighting off the tears that were threatening to fall down her cheeks. At that smile, the scorching inside him cooled, and he breathed again, slowly.

"Miss Schlegel—" he began, once the thudding of his heart subsided.

"Helen, please," she said, her hands moving down his shoulders to clasp around his wrists.  

"Helen." He savored her name on his tongue, and it was so sweet that he had to say it again. "I looked for you, Helen. After—Oniton. I looked for you. I wanted to—to apologize—"

"There was nothing to apologize for."

"I went to Wickham Place, but you were gone. I was afraid you had to move because of me. Then I found your sister, and she told me you were in Germany. And I believed that I drove you away, that you didn't want to see me again—" He was rambling now, his tongue and mind and heart loosened by the morphine, or perhaps by Helen's smile and the solemn eyes of the boy in the photograph, and all the memories he'd buried away came rushing forth like a flood.

"There was a time when I never wanted to see you again," she said. "I know it sounds appalling, but for the longest time, I didn't want to see you. I just wanted to put the whole thing behind me." She looked away for a moment. Leonard thought he could see the pain of those early days in her eyes, but what he felt now wasn't guilt. For the first time since arriving in Belgium, he wished to live. To live, so he could make it up for her, for their son, and perhaps for himself as well. Helen was looking at him again, her eyes brightening. "But then Leo was born," she said. "And from the moment I held him, I've loved him so much that nothing else mattered anymore."

He wanted to ask if she ever loved him. No, now was not the time.

"What is he like?" He couldn't speak the boy's name, not yet.

A tender smile crossed Helen's face. "He's the sweetest. Rather serious for his age. Meg calls him an old soul. He reminds me of you sometimes." She squeezed his hand. "You'll see for yourself, when you go back to England."

England. It had seemed so inconceivable just that morning, yet it was frightfully tangible now. Hope pierced Leonard's heart like barbed wire. "But—"

"I'm not asking anything of you, Leonard. Just that you meet him. If you want."

"I do." As he said it, Leonard knew it was true. He'd thought he had no one, nothing left in England. But now he had something. And when he saw Helen's smile and the tears in her eyes as she looked at him, and felt her hand in his, he realized he had something here as well, a spot of light in this place of mud and death and madness.

Another wave of morphine crashed over him, but Leonard fought against it, not wanting to drown in it just yet. This miracle, this blessing was too precious, he didn't want to waste it in sleep.

 "I still don't believe you're really here," he murmured. "I was just thinking about you, right before I went under."

"Were you?"

"They were playing Beethoven's Fifth in the dugout. It reminded me of Prince Regent's Hall, of the day we met. Do you remember?"

A shy smile tugged at the corner of Helen's lips. "You still have some mud on your face," she said. She took the sponge and wiped away the mud. Her hand, whether by accident or on purpose, brushed across Leonard's lips. He managed to raise his arm, took that hand, and pressed her palm to his mouth. She didn't pull away.

The blonde nurse came back. A part of Leonard wished she would go away, and another part wished he could share their joy with her, with anyone. "You should get some rest, Helen," she said. "I can stay with him if necessary."

Helen squeezed Leonard's hand more tightly. "No, I'm all right," she answered, without taking her eyes off him.

The other nurse retreated. Helen lifted Leonard's hand, the one still holding on to hers, and kissed his knuckles. There was a moment of hesitation, and then, leaning down, she kissed his lips as well, tender and careful, so different from her fumbling, frenzied kisses that night so long ago.

"Sleep now," she whispered.

"Stay with me?" he asked, though he was already drifting off.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, and, like a gesture of promise, took his hand again and laced her fingers through his.

Holding on to that hand, Leonard let out a deep sigh, and slept. While the rain and the thunder of shellfire continued outside, he slept and dreamed of their son, of England, and of home. Helen he didn't have to dream about, for she was there with him, and was going to be there when he woke up.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

THE END

A/N: Leonard is probably my favorite JQ character (after Eddie), and yet I struggled for the longest time to write something for him, probably because a) I'm too familiar with the source material and its other adaptation (the 1992 movie) and b) Leonard's story is rather finite and I couldn't figure out how to fix it in a way that makes sense to me. It wasn't until I reread "A Room with a View" and learned that Forster had written an epilogue/alternate ending that took place during World War I and II that I came up with the idea of doing something similar for poor Leonard. I totally ripped off a scene in A.S. Byatt's "The Children's Book" for this, btw.

The title is taken from Rupert Brooke's "The Beginning". The poem quoted in the opening and the end is "The Soldier", also by Rupert Brooke.

Thank you for reading!

[keeponquinning]

Alright, after my shift today I'm gonna have the next two days off, which means catching up on my reading here but also more writing. Rainfic is DONE ( ty all giving notes and love to that by the way 😭 i see you and love you ) so that means I gotta write SOMETHING ELSE. I'm pretty much settled on the first real attempt at RPF with "professor" Joseph, BUT, I'm also kinda curious about the interest you guys would have so, we gonna do a poll.

[keeponquinning]

Okay but like...... I still have Part 2 & 3 of, "Yes, Professor" to do, and then the Leonard Bast fic thanks to @quinnsmunson and I going back and forth about it, bless and love you, buuut.

With this talk of Joseph and The Box, like.......

What's the point of writing Joseph x erotica novelist reader and NOT have the two of them go to such a fine establishment for, in Reader's words, "Inspiration" for a story you're working on and Joseph being the good supportive boyfriend he is......

I mean........right?

👀