Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

I n the morning, Devon stood in the open doorway of the cottage, looking over the field in the pre-dawn's light. The morning's sunrise was the color of blood, streaked with dark blue, and though it wasn't raining, there was the smell of rain in the air. Devon's breath misted in silver sparkles in the front porch light. He snapped the light off, closed the door, and picked up his coffee mug from the counter.

If he got straight to work, he could make up for time missed the day before, but he didn't want to turn on the light and wake Stanley, who was still asleep on the couch. It might have been nice, the night before, to have Stanley sleep in the bed with him, as the bed was more comfortable than the couch any day. Besides, Devon could have kept an eye on him, rather than having to sleep with one eye open all night. Not because he was worried that Stanley would do something to him, but that he might suddenly disappear and go back to where he'd come from.

Devon had gotten up twice in the middle of the night to pad out to the living room to make sure Stanley was still there. Now he was tired. His eyes felt gritty, and he had a good hour's worth of work he needed to do before he could eat breakfast. In spite of this, he took a moment to walk over to the couch where Stanley was still fast asleep.

Stanley was curled up beneath the bedclothes, on his side, facing the room, both hands tucked beneath the pillow. Asleep, he looked younger than he ought to have, given what he'd been through, and he still looked pale, in spite of the full night's sleep.

Devon wanted to wake him up and feed him and talk to him, and just be with him. It was as if Stanley's arrival, however ungainly, had opened the gate to Devon's heart. He wanted to open it wider, and to let Stanley in, to trust Stanley and share those secrets he guarded so close. But he needed to let Stanley rest. Perhaps later, when Stanley woke up, then Devon could say what he felt, if he were brave enough.

Doing his best to focus on his work, Devon started his laptop as quietly as he could. He found his notes by the glare of the screen, the wattage of which he turned down as low as he could and still see. After a quick swallow of coffee, he began transcribing his recent research about the weather, and how officers got first crack at being in the bunker when it began to rain. How the soldiers had to slog about in mud up to their shins, and how the food had started to be rationed because the roads were too muddy to get supplies through.

This was probably what had happened to Stanley. While the food shipments had not been delayed during the late spring and summer months, the supply chain had become strained when the cold front had moved in. The correlation between that and the occurrences of the flu were—

Devon stopped typing and pulled up the meteorology chart to double check on the actual temperatures, which would give his facts the heft that they needed to support his thesis. Which, he realized, as he always did at some point during each and every day, should have been about the futility of war because why—

He made himself stop from going along that line of thinking. It didn't do him any good, as he was too far down the weather path to turn back now. Plus, he didn't want to redo the thesis with another central point because he'd have to start from the beginning.

He already knew this subject so well that he'd be able to pass his orals easily, when the time came. Which would be in the spring, when he got back. Back to the States. But what would happen to Stanley when Devon left France if he didn't go with Devon?

Devon looked up and over at the couch, where the low gray hump attested to the fact that Stanley was still sound asleep in spite of Devon's tapping away.

The first and most obvious solution was to take Stanley with him, as Devon had promised. Stanley was an American, that much was clear, so maybe if they pretended Stanley had amnesia and had somehow wound up in France?

They'd give him John Doe papers to start with. There'd be a small media blitz with pleas for information about Stanley. His picture would be shown everywhere, shared on every station and social media outlet. Nobody would be able to connect him to the young man that he was, and then Devon would be able to keep him. Though, of course, if Stanley wanted to leave, Devon would let him go, just as long as Stanley was happy.

Devon was tempted to look up the records to see if Stanley was who he said he was. If he did find evidence of Stanley having existed back in 1917, he'd have to face up to the fact that it was real, that something paranormal had occurred. But that was all nonsense, wasn't it, and perhaps it was better to let the mystery continue, at least for now. Besides, he needed to finish his work for the day, especially if they were going to walk the trenches later, and then take pictures of Stanley in his uniform. That would be the fun part, so he needed to get the serious work done before Stanley got up.

It was nice having company in the quiet dark while the light beyond the drawn curtains grew brighter, and the room grew warmer as the radiators kicked on. It was nice to think about having breakfast together, and the pleasure he would get in feeding Stanley. Having someone around so he wouldn't be so lonely was nice, too. Which was a selfish way to be thinking about this, as Stanley, if he were truly a time traveler, would need to feel safe in the future he'd found himself in. Devon intended to do everything in his power to make that happen.

The air on Stanley's skin was warm in a way that it shouldn't be because if he was in the trench and had fallen asleep while on watch, or while waiting for his turn at the latrine, the air would be cold. Should be cold. It was November, after all, and since the first of the month the rains had come, sweeping across the battlefields in chilly curtains, making mud of the earth.

The rain also cut through the mustard gas, and swept away the pall of smoke, but only for a time. When the rain stopped, the sky remained cloudy, and the vapor left behind by mortar guns and cook fires swirled up in the air and hung aloft at head height, giving every indrawn breath a choking, thick taste of smoke and bitter ash.

The air now smelled of freshly brewed coffee and the faint warm dust of toast. Instead of the sound of metallic booms from far away that were constantly coming closer, there was only a faint tap tap tappety tap sound. It was, yes, a little metallic, but it carried no threat, and wasn't scary to listen to at all. Instead, it was soothing in a busy kind of way, for it was continual and rhythmic, like something you could predict and count on.

Stanley opened his eyes, and was completely surprised to be looking up at the age-dark beams in the ceiling above him, interspersed with white stucco. The air was warm instead of cold or damp. When he looked over at the empty fireplace, he wondered at the source of heat and then remembered the white radiators. Then the whole of the night before came at him so fast that he sat up with a gasp, clutching the sheet and duvet to his chest, his hands spread, already short of breath as his heart sped up to galloping. Though he opened his mouth to speak, he could not utter a sound.

Across the room, sitting at the kitchen table, was Devon. He had been at work, but instead of using a typewriter, it was on the flat part of a large piece of metal folded in half, with one half sticking up. The laptop.

Devon stopped typing the moment Stanley sat up, and though he was a little sleep rumpled, all of his attention, and those brilliant green eyes, were focused on Stanley.

"Are you awake?" asked Devon.

Stanley felt that Devon didn't know that he was afraid, and felt that he couldn't let Devon know that he was. Except Devon got up and crossed the room and was at Stanley's side. He even sat down on the couch, crowding Stanley with his nearness as he took Stanley's hand. Stanley wanted nothing more than to fall into Devon's arms and stay there forever, but he held himself back.

"Hey, Stanley," said Devon in a completely calm way. "It's okay. Do you remember where you are? Do you remember me from last night?"

"Of course I remember you," said Stanley, somewhat crossly at having been caught out being scared like a little girl. But he was shaking at the same time, both with fear at waking up in a strange place and with resisting the impulse to fling himself into Devon's arms. What would it have been like had he been born in Devon's time, where the strictures of 1917 had never existed?

"Are you okay?" asked Devon. "Do you want some coffee? I could make you some breakfast."

Devon seemed entirely more cheerful than he ought to be, considering that Stanley had barged into his life, taken up his couch, and had now interrupted his work. The coffee from the night before had been so delicious that the offer was hard to resist. Besides, looking at Devon, who was still holding Stanley's hand, made Stanley feel better than he ought to have, all things considered.

Stanley sighed, hoping that his dreams weren't shining in his eyes, as that was what had, very possibly, made Isaac withdraw. He nodded as he let out a breath.

"I'll take that as a yes," said Devon. He stood up, patting Stanley's hand with both of his as he let go. "You know where the bathroom is if you need to use it. I'll start a new pot of coffee and get some breakfast going."

Stanley shoved the duvet back and stumbled to the bathroom, which was a great deal easier than peeling back a half-frozen wool blanket that smelled of horse shit. Devon's bathroom, as well, was a veritable palace of white tile, and was clean and warm, making it easy to use. It was much better than using a latrine that was really a shallow ditch that left your ass hanging out in the air and offered no privacy whatsoever.

As Stanley washed his hands, using the sweet smelling soap and endless supply of warm water, which stayed the exact same temperature the entire time he had the tap open, he didn't want to look at himself, but he did. His eyes were like two burned spots of brown, with the usual dark circles beneath, and his cheeks looked as hollow as a flu victim on the verge of death.

His expression was the one Isaac used to tease him about, the one he always said made Stanley look like he'd been carved in marble, and which could only come unstuck with vast applications of hot coffee. Stanley had always tried to resist a response, to make the moment last, to make the tease more effective that way. Alas, he'd always broken into a smile, his whole face feeling buoyed up by laughter, which, when Isaac had been near and laughing in response, had warmed his entire body, his soul. Every time, he'd drawn away after the initial flirting. Both of them had.

Now Stanley felt like a bit of a traitor because the coffee that Devon was making—and Stanley could smell the half bitter, half velvet smell of it even now as the warmth of it seeped below the bottom of the bathroom door—would taste better than anything the canteen had ever served, better than anything he'd shared in a tin mug with Isaac.

Stanley looked away from the mirror and dried his hands; at least he wasn't leaving black streaks, on account of the shower he'd taken the night before. He looked at the tub and knew that it would be too decadent to take another shower quite so soon. Besides, all of this was probably some wild fantasy his mind had dreamed up to take him away from the horror of the trenches.

Even he knew that time travel wasn't real. Maybe he was a ghost. Or maybe he was dead and dreaming as he floated his way up to heaven. Except that from behind the doorway, Devon was calling, and Stanley could smell bacon.