The Lily

The Lily

Author: wanderingsmith
Started oct 2021 - latest update dec 2021
Summary: Fear! Fire! Foe!
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and nobody'd be daft enough to pay me for this. As it is thought, so let it be said; you make the toys, I play with 'em..

AN: For friedrichfeher

Prequel: Birthday

Goto Chapter 2: We rise again
Goto Chapter 3
Goto Chapter 4: The Lily
Goto Chapter 5: Unveilings
Goto Chapter 6: Mouche

Chapter one : If this is to end in fire
oct 2021

AN:Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.
Lao Tzu
Yes, again. the first part was in the last chapter of Birthday. the second part is here

The plan I see in my head of the cafe main floor and basement

- I am totally MAKING UP a ramped walkout to the cellar (because how the heck did they get those barrels in there, really?....And i want one for story, so there...)

- They changed the design of the cellar in s5e10. I am ignoring that and using the one from season 1 where the door is against the wall and there is a window (not that it really matters).

- In S7e02 Rene tells Flockenstuffen that the cellar is 'the door in the passage'. I am ignoring that too.

- The door in the kitchen was a larder once (which I totally missed and thought was in the backroom until after posted this the first time), the one time Michelle opened it and it was dark beyond like a room.. another time it was open skies... I vote for it being to a pantry with access to cellar and to the walkout seen when Maria nitroes the chickens (as opposed to the completely changed garden access in s5e15 - so how about Birthday happen right after s5e11(Gruber lying about the french general) before the whole going to the mill to retrieve the painting)

- Through the door of the billiards room you see stairs upwards...I've no bloody idea where that would put it.. so - I am ignoring that detail.

- And where the fuck the frontage for that 'backroom' is when they show the building, do not ask me...

A messenger came, soot on his face.

He found them three streets over to tell them the café was also on fire, and Hubert went cold.

As he clumsily got in the staff car, he was distantly glad that Helga was already at the wheel; he did not think he could have driven. Nor that he could have continued to stare at a burning warehouse, with its handful of civilians throwing water buckets, if the colonel had not chosen to go and look on the latest arson of this unpleasant night.

It was far from the first time René had been in danger. He had even been declared dead, and assumed dead, both as himself and as his brother, several times. And Hubert had, each time, grieved, even as he silently wondered if this was another Résistance game.

Had been kept awake with the crippling guilt of what he could and *should* have done! But it was always too late, and René had never welcomed his regret, or joy at his survival when he came back. And on they had gone and he had swallowed the agony as he had been taught a man must.

But this time-

He saw the flames blazing through the upper windows as they entered the square. And he was rising without any awareness of whether the vehicle had stopped, distantly aware of evading grasping hands.

There was a wall of noise that had to be shouts and screams, some possibly his own, as he frantically swung his head, searching for a familiar shape among the shadows rushing back and forth in the capering lantern light and the conflagration's glare, as it tried to break the moonless night.

He saw a man in the decorated dark uniform of French firemen holding back a woman in a nightgown and rollers that had to be Madame Edith, and tried to hurry toward them through the chaos of bodies and vehicles -and the molasses that seemed to fill the air around his legs. It only took a few steps to realize Edith was trying to run back to the building; and the unnamed fear that had gripped him sharpened to terror and slowed his steps further. He took another desperate look around, and saw Madame Fannie leaning on Monsieur Leclerc well to the back of the crowd, and near Madame Edith, Miss Yvette held onto Miss Mimi, who also seemed to be thinking of running at the building.

His vision was trying to tunnel into darkness as he stumbled to a stop, near enough, now, to hear what Madame Edith was yelling at her captor, hoarse as she was from the smoke.

"Let me *go* you fool! My husband is still in there!! He is a hero of France! I must help him!!"

"It is too late, Madame!"

'I trust you'

He was still thinking enough to fumble his belt off, and then pull off his fireproof jacket to hold over his head as he turned and ran, half-blind and faint with terror. Toward a burning building.

But hearing René so warm and caring in his mind sent a mad energy into his limbs, and he could not abandon him. Not this time! He had promised to always try to save him!

All that could be seen through the windows was swirling smoke, tinged with yellow and orange that warned of the nearby monster, and choking and blinding all fools that drew near. And still something drove his legs to run forward, instead of locking him in place as he usually was.

He distantly heard the shouting redouble, Madame Edith's fireman bellowing loudest, as he ploughed into the alley to the door, easily elbowing away one of the peasants that had been throwing buckets of water at the next building, and now tried to stop him.

Then he stepped into the grey-shrouded café.

And an instant later the night was filled with shattering glass and crashing wood, for a moment even louder than the low roar that had filled his ears as he entered; and Hubert hunched in, waiting to die.

But the roar retook ascendance without the upper floors coming down on his hat and shoulders and he knew he still had to go on, and he tried desperately to look around through eyes that were watering badly. He brought his sleeve up to his nose to try to filter the smoke and yelled 'REN-' but his voice cut out halfway through, turning to a wracking cough, and he knew the roar drowned him out anyway and he would only be able to find him by sight!

He could not see anything like a body on the floor as he hurried toward the stairs, ice in his veins when he saw the glow of fire around the bend, and felt the heat redouble from what was already blistering through his flimsy shirt. He was about to run up when the old sconces on the landing flashed into brief flames even as the railing upward disintegrated into a shower of sparks. And flames seethed into sight down the stairs.

René! He did not yell, this time, but the howl was there in his mind. Then the smoke swirled and he saw the door to the kitchen.

And the cellar beyond! Where René had once kept the Madonna, and possibly kept other important things!

He rushed for the door, praying he would not open it to a face-full of flames, or- He flew through before he could be grateful the passage was open, and only thought to close the door behind him when he saw the smoke billow in ahead of him, racing past like Rommel's motorcycle battalions across the fields of Flanders.

He wanted to run straight for the familiar cellar, but training made him kick open both other doors on the way to make certain René was not behind them, holding on to his jacket out of the same training, and then he finally reached the kitchen and saw the doors that led to the cellar both standing open, and yelled desperately "RENÉ!"

This time his voice did not cut out, though he heard the noise of the fire getting louder behind him again as he ran through the kitchen, and knew it had found a way past that door. And René had not answered!

He forgot the stairs and would have plunged onto the brick wall curving downward if he had not caught himself on the door frame as his feet stepped on nothing. Rushing down the curved, earthen staircase with something more like reason, trying to ignore the needle of pain creeping into his heart at the reminder of the bad feeling he'd had that *this* time, René was truly in danger of his life-

And tasting gorge when he saw the body lying on the ground, feet tangled in bricks, blood covering his temple, surrounded with debris. Hubert's legs vanished and he could only crawl to him, hearing a strange whine that he should not be able to hear over the crackle and roar of the approaching flames, no longer mere smoke, and the creak of three stories of weakened wood beams from the building above.

And then he thought he saw René's back move with a breath under the loose night-clothes and he cried out, coughing and reaching to touch and feel and- YES! He was alive!

But he could no longer hear himself over the creaks that were becoming screeches.

Every cell in his body knew they needed to get out, NOW, and he pulled René's shoulders up until he was sitting like a rag doll and threw his jacket over René's head and how he found the strength to lift him in his arms as he stood up he would never be able to explain but he ran up the slanted walkout to the garden and shouldered the door open.

He felt the wall of heat rush at him from behind with the new air he'd introduced.

He tried to run again, but the night filled with overwhelming sound and pain.

AN:{VEG}.........

This song has absolutely NO TRUE LINK to the fic. only that lyrics appeared in the fic and I can't separate them in my head (Chris de Burgh - Crusader) on the other hand, Sabaton's Ghost Division is directly responsible for Rommel's appearance here

Chapter two
oct 2021

~~~A man in a pristine white shirt, and black, well-cut trousers -if in the old, high style- bustles into a wide, high-ceilinged foyer, welcoming with sunlight and warm colours around the old oak desk at its back, guarding the wide doors leading onward on either side of it. He has a mostly-white monk's tonsure above an only slightly wrinkled face showing signs of laughter and sun and the beginning of jowls, and carries a well-polished copper platter piled with unfolded napkins. When he looks up, he smiles in cheerful welcome, dark eyes bright over a generous aquiline nose and a thinning, if still mostly brown, moustache, "Oh, hello there. How nice to see you again! You might have noticed that this is not Café René. I am afraid Café René is gone."

The scene changes to nighttime in a town square, with hungry flames lighting the moonless night in gaudy shades of yellow and orange.~~~

When the building collapsed in on itself with a terrifying roar, minutes after the lieutenant's foolish rescue attempt, the watchers were struck silent, eyes wide in shock.

Edith felt the lone fireman that had appeared to save their café release her, now that there was nowhere for her to run, and watched him go off to concentrate on telling everyone what to do. And then she felt an arm slide stiffly across her back, and dazedly turned to meet the colonel's pained eyes, and let herself lean on him, nodding tiredly to private Helga, standing steps away with silent tears on her cheeks.

Edith's eyes turned back to René's, and Gruber's, funeral pyre. She could hear Mimi and Yvette sobbing their heartbreak in each other's arms nearby. Could still hear the fire's hungry roar, though it had diminished itself, now, by eating so much of its fuel. The townspeople the fireman had conscripted, that she could not help glaring at suspiciously, were still rushing about around them, continuing to throw water at the nearby buildings to keep the flames from leaping across the alley to Marie's. The café was nothing but a gaping orange stare from the empty, open-topped frames of what had been the front windows.

"He is truly gone, now."

Along with all their belongings. The café. Everything.

It was a hollow thought. René had survived so much, even before he had come back from the dead, again and again, in the service of the Résistance. All that boisterous energy, grumpy and cowardly, lies and all; gone. Her living gone with him.

"I'm afraid so, Madame Edith."

At least her mother was safe. And Monsieur Alphonse was hurrying up the street already; she did have a place for them to go.

She straightened painfully, feeling as though she had aged 20 years in an hour, and turned to face the colonel sadly, "I am sorry for the lieutenant, colonel." She had felt a bitter simmer of anger at his joining the ranks of René's conquests, and doing it so blatantly -practically demanding her *approval*...

But she was still grateful for his uncharacteristic bravery in attempting to rescue her foolish René.

The colonel nodded, looking aged himself. For all that she did not think he had been nearly as close to Gruber as he had been to captain Geering, she did not imagine even a German enjoyed the thought of a fellow officer burning to death before him. And not taking any enemies with him, even.

--

René opened his eyes, and groaned at the pain in his head. He would have been pleased to simply lay and suffer, but he could hear some terrifyingly loud crackling nearby, the room was far too hot for comfort, almost singing through his thin sleep-clothes, and he was breathing in *dirt* with every breath! Along with the so-familiar faint smell of diesel and lily... and some burning chemicals that brought back very unpleasant memories of his youth.

When he made himself raise his head, not only did agony stab even harder across the top of his skull, but he realized that there was something draped over it.

Breathing deeply to avoid throwing up from the pain, he pushed himself to his knees and reached up to pull off the heavy wool... jacket. German.. ADC cord- 'Ubair?? Why was 'Ubair's jacket on-

A loud crash behind him made him jerk and then grab his head with a moan, but he made himself turn all the way around, the smell of smoke now overwhelmingly worrisome.

The first thing he saw was the giant fire flaming to his left in and around stone ruins he had not seen since they had built the first additions, explaining the billowing heat he had woken to. He shivered when he realised he could even see part of the cellar around the mountain of debris filling it, and his recent memory came crashing back even as the last standing timbers were doing.

The second was the familiar body laying on the top end of the smoke-filled walkout to the cellar, arms outstretched toward René, white shirt turned grey with soot, streaked with holes rimmed in black, and his hat tumbled between them, badly singed. As face down in the dirt of René's back garden as René himself had been.

And there was a trail of fire creeping up the walkout's planks toward 'Ubair's feet!

René hurried over on his knees to shake his lover's shoulders, reassured to see that the hat must have protected the back of his head from whatever had burned his back, " 'Ubair- WAKE UP, LIEUTENA-" Coughing from the strain on his smoke-roughened throat and lungs, René raised 'Ubair's shoulders up and tried to get him to something like sitting, glad it pulled his boots a little away from those encroaching flames, and was just debating if standing and trying to lift him would make him throw up faster than bending over to drag him to safety, when he felt 'Ubair's shoulder move.

"René?"

René swallowed in relief to hear the shaky rasp, "We must move, 'Ubair! We are too close to the fire!" There was also an ominous hum and crackle coming from the woodshed that sat half over what remained of the cellar, where he could see flames seething in the aged ceiling beams -and only ash where there used to be doors.

"Fire..." René did not wait for 'Ubair to slowly wake up, as he had, and instead helped him up clumsily, swallowing hard as 'Ubair groaned and shuddered under his hand.

"I know. I would rather cut off my own 'ead as well." He got them to the far corner of the garden, leaning his back to the high fence next to the road and holding 'Ubair in his arms as they both breathed and tried to catch their spinning heads. Still far too close to the woodshed for his comfort, but they could step over the back fence and get away if they 'ad to.

"What happened?"

René automatically rubbed his cheek against 'Ubair's, the urge to throw up fading somewhat as he stood still, glad to feel his lover slowly straightening more normally against him. "The fire you mean?" He took a moment to clear the fog from his mind and organize the chaotic memories, "Some of my charming neighbours appear to have decided that is it not enough that I risk my life for the Résistance," he growled under his breath, even more annoyed than usual at having been dragged into that mess. And then relaxed somewhat as 'Ubair wrapped his arms around him and hugged him. "I am still a collaborator and apparently must die for trying to survive. They woke us sneaking into the garden, drunken idiots the lot of them, and we heard them throw something through the window of the spare room besides us. Fools no doubt meant to throw into ours and miscounted. Or else their information is as faulty as that of the Résistance. In any case, we hurried into the room, only to find fire splashed everywhere-"

"Molotov cocktail."

René grimaced at the mumble, remembering the 'orrible feeling of finality at seeing that odd *layer* of flame sticking to every surface, and creeping up the thick paint -and the dry planks be'ind; and in the centre, the bonfire the old wooden bed had become. "Yes. I could smell furniture polish and tar. We tried to smother it with Yvette's blanket, but it just caught fire immediately. I closed the door so the fire would be contained as long as possible, and sent Edith and the girls to get her mother and Monsieur Leclerc out."

"They were all outside the café when we arrived."

René hugged him for saying it without René needing to ask, quickly gentling the hold when 'Ubair grunted in pain, remembering that hole-speckled shirt-back. "They did not throw more; perhaps they thought they would simply burn Edith and I-" he grimaced as he felt 'Ubair shudder and tighten his own hold on René, and changed the subject. "What were you doing... how did we get here?"

For a moment 'Ubair was quiet, and René wondered if he did not remember. When he felt the man tense, he turned his head to smooth his lips along his jaw in reassurance.

'Ubair's voice was choked when he finally spoke, "... I found you unconscious in the cellar; at least one of the shelves looked to have fallen, and something hit you on the head. By then the kitchen and pantry were in flames, so I covered you with my jacket and carried you out toward the garden... but I think the building collapsed as we went through the doors.. and it sent me to the ground..."

René barely resisted gripping him tighter again as his guts froze at the images flickering through his mind; and bit his lip to keep from shouting at him for clearly risking his life. Neither of them was up to a yelling match... and René remembered the guilt that had eaten at 'Ubair for having given the order to shoot René. And that had been before they had... gotten 'close' -which he knew very well they *were*, regardless of his lover's attempt to be wise. He pressed their cheeks together tighter at the thought of what René's death here might have done to the man who had smiled at him with such tenderness during a long, sweet, sleepless night.

When something inside the fire collapsed with a geyser of sparks and flames, 'Ubair pressed himself to René and muttered against his ear, "We need to get away from here."

René stared at what remained of the café rather than answering immediately. "...They must think we are dead," he felt 'Ubair nod against him as he continued, "If...If I reappear, they will only try to kill me again. It truly is time for me to leave." He had had the thought so often since the war started that it was *almost* casual.. Except for one detail-

'Ubair's head lifted, a fey light dancing in his eyes from the nearby fire. "I am going with you."

It was not a question, and not an offer, and René took a shaky breath of deep relief before leaning forward to press a quick kiss on lips as dirty and dry as his own, and taking a moment to soak in the disbelieving joy that lit those dirt-streaked features at the innocent peck; he might even have felt something like it pulling at his own cheek muscles. Then he made himself straighten and let 'Ubair go. "Then we should go now. If they think we are dead, they will not look for us."

Being on the run with a German would bring its own danger to make up for not being hunted. But they would deal with it. Together. And so the future changed to one he had not dared dream a few days -nights- ago.

'Ubair nodded, and winced, touching his forehead gingerly, and then René's brows raised to see him turn back to the walkout that had, surprisingly, not yet gone up in flames. But then he hummed understanding to see him stoop painfully to pick up his jacket and hat, left in the dirt just beyond the flames as they'd shambled away from the danger. He walked back to René and stopped a few feet away to look him over with a seriousness that made René look down at himself as well. And grimace at the notion of being on the run in his nightclothes. Then 'Ubair approached and handed him the tunic and hat with some of that abrupt manner he developed when taking charge, "Hold these a moment."

Raising a quizzical brow, René took the uniform obediently, and then stood still as 'Ubair spat on his sleeve and used it to wipe at René's face. Which he only understood when 'Ubair pulled the arm back and René realized that that was blood staining the white shirt, now. 'Ubair grimaced grimly at his enlightened look and took the hat from him, "Now, take off your robe and put that on, René. In the darkness, the shape of these trousers might be enough to mark me a German, and the hat and jacket do the same for you after I darken your sleep-pants with earth from that garden. So even if we are seen, we would only seem two soldiers, walking back to billets after a night on the town."

René hummed noncommittally, but did not see any harm in the attempt, so he passed 'Ubair his robe and carefully got his arms in the far too tight jacket, though he was a little more dubious when the man tugged him to the squash patch after giving him back his robe, and actually knelt down to grab handfuls of earth. And started rubbing them on René's legs. René smirked, trying to stand still while looking down at his lover in such a lovely, evocative position, "Really, 'Ubair? You truly do not need such far-fetched reasons to touch me up." Not anymore, at least.

He saw 'Ubair's shoulders shake with a snort before he tipped his head back to wink at René. And then, without responding, took more earth and slowly rose to a higher crouch. The dangerous situation quite suddenly faded and René's awareness focused on just where those skilful lips were... and on the hands sliding up his thighs...

'Ubair suddenly laughed, leaning forward to quickly press a kiss to the tent that had appeared in René sleep-pants in the vee of the open jacket, before rising to kiss the chagrin from René's lips. "I think you enjoy my touch very much, my dear René, and I will therefor use *any* excuse." With another kiss, he raised his brows in diffident question, "Do you *usually* sleep with your shoes on, then?"

René looked down at the leather peaking out of the loose -and now very dirty- cotton around his legs, "No. But we have been woken by far too many mad events, starting with R.A.F. attacks, during this war; I long ago got in the habit of putting shoes on as soon as I get out of bed. I do not care for stepping on broken glass in bare feet."

"Ah. That makes more sense." And René found himself holding back a fond smile as 'Ubair then set the hat on his head with something between fussiness and tenderness. Once he stepped back with a prissy nod, René rolled the robe into a rope and knotted it across 'Ubair's chest like a bandolier, and then took a moment to peek around the fence into the carriage way in the hopes that no one was coming to investigate the smouldering woodshed yet. With the coast clear, he turned and threw his leg over the back fence, discretely checking that 'Ubair managed the same without a stumble, reminding himself to look over his back if they found a medical kit. Or a river.

Then he looked out across the all too open field before the town, and was glad for the lack of a moon. "South? It will mean creeping around the town, but the forest to the North tends to be used by the Résistance," he glanced at his companion furtively, "...Or so I 'ave 'eard."

'Ubair gave him a dry look, though he turned to begin lounging the fence toward the neighbouring backyards, "René, let us dispense with all those games, please."

"Yes-" When following him in that turn caused René's head to spin sickeningly and he stumbled, he flailed slightly for 'Ubair's arm, "Yes, my apologies, 'Ubair. I am afraid it has become a reflex."

He ignored the worried look 'Ubair threw him as he squeezed René's hand, and they both started walking along the edge of Nouvion. They could not run, and even trying to walk at a faster pace had them both sweaty with pain and holding their heads all too soon. But there was nothing to be done; they had to get away before daylight came and too many people started to appear, and had enough light to recognize them. So they carried on, first around the perimeter of Nouvion until they came to an alley they could use, safely away from the commotion at the café, and then through the town by every narrow path René knew 'And he knew many'.

They had almost reached the South edge when René saw clothes that had been left hanging on a line overnight. Sniffing disdain for the foolishness, he nonetheless looked around to make certain there was still no one about, and then leaned over to whisper in 'Ubair's ear "Stay here", and quickly walked into the yard and tugged down the clothes. He bundled them for easy carrying as he walked back to 'Ubair who gave him a somewhat surprised look. René grimaced, reluctantly leaning in to whisper again, even as he watched for waking townspeople, "Barlo was just the sort to have been part of that mob of idiots; I have dealt with the bastard for enough years to have no sympathy for taking his work-clothes. He can just as well pretend to make glass while in his Sunday rags." With a sympathetic wince, 'Ubair squeezed his shoulder, and they continued on, crossing the last two alleys before they finally had to head across open country, and in plain sight of the nearby road.

They had just made it to the forest when sunrise came, which felt at least slightly less dangerous, as false an impression as they knew that to be. Barely past the bushes marking the end of the field, 'Ubair jerked them behind a tree and René barely bit back a cry of pain. But when they peeked around the trunk, he saw a tank, much like 'Ubair's, sitting in the road that they had got much closer to in the dark than he had meant. He felt 'Ubair's lips on his ear and smirked at the "Stay here". As much as he wanted to argue, just as he had been best for judging Nouvion, dealing with Germans was something he rather thought 'Ubair better-equipped to do, even in a filthy, burned shirt. He 'ad shown himself capable of prevarication more than once, after all; perhaps not as practised as René, but good enough for fooling Germans.

René watched him walk quietly but quickly into the trees next to the steel monster, his movements strangely alien, sure and firm, the usual mincing glide entirely gone 'As though he were a soldier, yes?' He was just thinking he should have given 'Ubair his jacket and hat when he noticed the shadow there, and realized at least one of the tank's personnel must be taking a piss. And was distracted enough not to hear 'Ubair come up behind him and bean him with a thick branch as René's eyes widened in surprise. After a moment's stillness, 'Ubair shook himself and then stepped -moving like René's 'Ubair now- over to look inside the vehicle, and then waved René over.

"We can get much further in a tank than by foot. And unobserved."

René raised his brows, nodding toward the woods, "Was that necessary?"

'Ubair sniffed haughtily, waving a limp wrist in the general direction of the downed man, "He is as much of an ass as your glassworker. I did not kill him. The general will blame the Résistance and we get out of danger without being seen." he nodded firmly toward the hatch, "Come. He was apparently travelling without a driver. You can put the clothes on inside."

Grinning to himself at his forceful lieutenant, who was much more amusing when they were truly on the same 'side', René gingerly climbed in after him and closed the hatch, flinching as the loud 'And diesel-reeking' machine started up.

--

Afternoon was getting on when 'Ubair shouted, "We are almost out of benzin. I do not know this area. Is there anything near?"

As he stretched to look through the slit, René grimaced in pain from having sat so long in the cramped space as they drove quickly over the rough road they had chosen to avoid patrols, "I have not been this far South in some time," he watched the steady line of forest passing them by, "There should be some farms, vineyards... though many abandoned at this point, I expect. There would be villages near, but I could not guess in which direction."

"Good. If I were to drive into one of these dirt tracks and park, we could likely camouflage the tank so as to be harder to see from the road. It is not the most comfortable of beds, but we could sleep here tonight, rather than in the elements."

The track they took had a thick enough underbrush that even the mostly leafless vegetation offered fair cover, and a handy bend which left them practically invisible from the road. It still left them at risk of anyone roaming the woods, of course, but they stacked some of that still winter-bare brush around the metal monster from all sides, and closed up the slit well enough to not have surprises thrown at them. By then they were both yawning and stumbling, but René found the energy to make 'Ubair take off his shirt, and insisted on making use of the canteen and medical supplies he had found in the tank to clean the assorted minor burns the man had acquired playing hero.

Once 'Ubair returned the favour with the gash barely hidden by René's retreating hairline, they latched the hatch to not have any surprise visitors and laid down awkwardly, curled together like pups to fit on the uncomfortable metal floor, a raggedy blanket they'd found hidden under the driver's seat hardly doing anything to even keep the steel's chill away, but René's robe a fair blanket.

All too aware of the assortment of bruises he had picked up the night before, and the lack of any food all day, René nonetheless found himself smiling as he carefully snuggled 'Ubair closer, feeling strangely... light. "I am free."

'Ubair looked up from his soft nuzzle into René's neck, pleased but quizzical in the fading light.

René watched him, caught again by the change in himself. There was nothing feminine in those features, or the body he held. And yet being held in those strong arms made him feel at ease, the stroke of those lips made heat slowly coil in him; and the warmth in those eyes drew his very soul, now that he let himself get caught in them. "No one has any hold on me, now." he slipped his hand to 'Ubair's cheek, his grin fading as 'Ubair's eyes widened, "I can promise to be true to you." Something he really had not had a desire to even contemplate since the *last* war ended. Though he was not so certain he 'ad ever truly thought of it as a youth, either.

And they hardly knew each other, really. Their life in Nouvion had been forced to be lie after lie. And René had spent that time refusing to let himself think of what was before him, desperately trying to avoid *some* of the troubles and complications that followed him. And when he had finally lost the battle, they had had so little time to even build a bond based on simple sex before being given this chance to escape. And yet. He did, undeniably, want... to know that 'Ubair was his, which even Edith had not always been, for one reason or another. And he wanted to return it. To know he belonged to someone. That however pretty the scenery outside, he had scenery of his own. That came with real affection and partnership and made him feel cared for in every way.

He wanted 'Ubair to believe in him. And trust him. As René realized he did him, now that the German army and its demands no longer stood between them any more than his former life did. He felt a moment of kinship with the young couples he remembered rushing into marriage as the waves of grim, desperately-unhappy soldiers had come back from the trenches. Understood the need to affirm life and cling to anything *good* that suddenly presented itself.

That familiar pressed-out smile creased 'Ubair's lips as his eyes slipped close, a shaky breath streaming on René's lips as 'Ubair tipped their foreheads together. It took a moment for the shivers under René's palm to pass and a quiet whisper to break the darkness as wide hands tightened on his back to tug him closer, "Mine."

AN:members_of_the_french_resistance_with_molotov
and the Germans would be pleased to use the term molotov, lol

Chapter three: Placeholder chapter
nov 2021

for the years between, see Before the Lily

Chapter four: The Lily
nov 2021

AN:Let there be hope where there was none
The Lily

~~~~The old man smiles fondly, "Ah, but that was years ago, now. France, and the rest of Europe, has recovered from those years of madness..."~~~~

This time the scene is of an older couple standing besides a shiny new Volkswagen with SIXT's discrete logo on the windshield. Before them stretched out neatly-mown lawn running between trees ablaze with white and pink flowers, following the gentle ripple of the land, rows of dead-looking vines off to the side waiting for summer to bring out their trails of leaves that would become laden with grapes.

"Oh look at that *lovely* view."

"Umm, yes, it *is* quite picturesque."

The blond woman, hair paled by liberal white among the gold, and her skin showing the fine lines of a good life, sighed, leaning on the man's tweed-covered arm, "So very French. I almost expect René and Madame Edith to walk out from among the vines," she smiled mistily, "Trying to hide a radio transmitter."

The man giggled, pushing up his small round glasses before smoothing his short hair, still thick, but the mousy-brown liberally streaked with grey above a face settling with age, but creased with frequent smiles, "Yes. And offer us some awful wine."

"His brandy was good."

"Um." The man squinted along the gravel drive they were debating following before taking another look at the sign hung above the post box, "The Lily," he grinned, "Lilies always did make me think of the tank corp."

She looked up at him quizzically, "Really?"

He nodded distractedly, "Umm, it was popular to wear scents to cover the stink that could accumulate from too many men in a closed metal shell. Lily, for some reason, became common."

"Interesting. I always assumed lieutenant Gruber's choice of perfumes was due to his own peculiarities."

The man shrugged, "Considering how many of those men had you as a pinup at the same time, I'm really don't think so."

-------------

After being let out in front of the doors so she could go in and arrange things while he parked, the woman took a moment to admire the old building, obviously built in sections, by the different shape and colour of the walls. Some of the stones of the bottom level looking very much as though they had seen Napoleon ride by, whereas the bricks of the section to the left still had crisp edges, like the newly-rebuilt areas of London. Though those tile roofs were very much of the continent, their shades of red the only difference between the old and the new.

An ancient willow in front of the new section created a lovely shaded areas with its young leaves, and she could see the tips of other trees tall enough to show above the main building, as well as vines crisscrossing the building façade that she suspected turned the building to a life-shrouded green for a good part of the year. Taking a deep breath, the air was redolent with plants in spring and the smell of fresh earth. Nothing of the city here, and even the fumes of their car were dissipating in the bare hint of breeze.

She had not realized how much she had noticed of France when she was here as a young woman. How the memories had lain dormant.

She finally shook her head at her wool-gathering and strode through the bare arches before the glass doors that stood half-open, seeing the rose branches twined in the wood, barely beginning to sprout leaves, and the raised beds off to the side, empty, for now, though she suspected there was a gardener in residence who would have them filled with bountiful flowers soon.

Then she passed through the doors into a warmly welcoming foyer, splashed in afternoon sun from not only the open doors, but the large windows on either side, with stylish, but still comfortable-looking armchairs facing them, should one have to wait their turn. The walls were dusky rose, with pale wood trim, all leading the eye to a very old, but perfectly-refinished oak desk at the back, at which sat a white-haired man with his head bent over a large book as he wrote in a small notebook, his ordinary white shirt and black vest at odds with the colourful decorating, the sun reflecting off the top of his skull until he looked up with a friendly smile at the sound of the bell over the glass doors.

"Welcome-"

She interrupted, halting in shock in the middle of the room, "René!"

The man's eyes widened in equal shock, and he got up clumsily as he stared at her as though *she* were the ghost, "Helga??"

"We thought you dead!"

"Ah. Well. Yes," René walked around the desk and reached out to take her hands and kiss her cheeks, smiling in pleasure, "That is a bit of a long story, Ms. Geerhart. What about you? What bring you to the heart of France?"

Returning his firm grip, Helga smiled, shaking her head at how little the man had changed; somewhat slimmer 'round the middle, only a handful of laugh lines having appeared on his otherwise still-smooth face. The eyes brighter than they had been, wrinkled in the corners by the sun that had tanned him more than their old café-owner had had time for. And far more open and welcoming than he had been, which she was very glad for. "That is a long story as well, René. Do you have a room for two? Perhaps we could invite you to join us for dinner?"

René's brows danced up before he laughed the same abrupt laugh she remembered, though the nervousness and bitterness that used to almost always tinged it was thankfully gone, "We do have a room," he turned toward the desk, hands rubbing together after an aborted reach for a missing apron, "In another month you would have risked having to use our own spare room, but as a matter of fact, I believe the Amélie is free..." he quickly flipped the pages of the large book before picking up the pen and looking up at her with a grin, "I will put you down as Helga and a friend and we can exchange long stories tonight. I assure you our table is far better than poor old Café René could boast, even when not on war rations."

Helga's smile had only got wider as he spoke with gleeful hints of their old plotting days, joining her in speaking in half-truths. She took the very old key he offered, feeling very grateful that they had come this way, "We will look forward to it."

René's smile quieted, "It really is quite lovely to see you again, Helga. The Amélie is our second best suite, I think you, and your friend, will be pleased," he pointed toward the newer side of the building, "It has its own entrance, with a pretty sitting area. You will see a placard with the name on the second gate, that key opens both the garden door and the inner door. And if you come here around six, I will escort you to a quiet table."

AN:Totally bluffing that lily was a popular scent. But Gruber was not lying about stink, even 20 years later, my father says it was the same, lol.

My general mental layout for the inn
The Lily
CentreDeLaLoire (it's actually hard to find ripply terrain that far North, but there is *some*)

Some source material that goes into my ideas of the inn
French inns

Chapter five: Unveilings
nov 2021

"You are being very mysterious, my dear. I have not seen you look so sneaky since we were both in uniform."

Helga finished tidying the man's ascot, knowing she was grinning, and indeed feeling a bit like her younger self. "I am not hiding any paintings, darling. But I do have a *pleasant* surprise to accompany our meal." She tipped her head as she smoothed her fine green dress and checked her earrings, "Well, I am certain part of it will be pleasant. Though I am not the only one sneaking."

The man snorted, "That *is* usually the way of it." He offered his arm, leaning over to steal a kiss before they stepped out of their quiet suite; and suite it was, much more spacious than any room they normally got. And so recently built that it had its own, shockingly-roomy full bath.

She turned them to stroll toward the front desk, wincing in memory of the afternoon. She knew she had not done a very good job of dissembling, but she had at least managed to keep him from entering when he'd brought the luggage to where she'd been standing under the willow listening to the breeze; and their private little garden access was indeed lovely. She looked forward to spending time there tomorrow, with nothing but fresh air and birds flitting in the bushes shading them.

"Oh! I meant to tell you, there was a tidy assortment of old, but well-maintained, farming vehicles by the parking spaces. You would approve."

Helga chuckled, "You sound very much as though you yourself approve." Their room had a mix of warm wood-panelled and pastel-blue walls, but the corridor outside their room was white-washed in an old French style, though the surface was so crisp it had obviously only been built in the last decade. There were wide windows into an inner courtyard, on the other side of which she could see a string of lights among a line of man-high bushes; she assumed a dining area behind the restaurant that seemed to take up half the older building, from the sounds of French chatter and cutlery drifting over through the open panes. And closer to this side, there was light glowing out of several glass doors, making the space seem quite lovely in the dark, even with the many bushes bare, and what looked like garden beds still nothing but earth.

"Umm. Whoever is in charge would have done well in the Wehrmacht..." he wisely quieted his voice as she turned them toward the doorway to the reception area and he caught sight of their host standing with his back to them besides the desk, talking to a young man in a tidy suit, presumably the evening desk person, by his attentive expression. René's suit was much the same as what he'd worn through their time in Nouvion, sartorial resistance to the currently more colourful styles that had to require quite a bit of stubbornness; not that that surprised her in the man.

Her husband froze when René turned, first smiling at her in greeting, then turning to her companion. And staring in shock of his own, though only for a moment. Then his old grin returned, his arms opening wide in welcome as he hurried over, "Captain Geering!! Welcome, welcome! Should I expect the colonel to be following you??" She was glad he had lowered his voice, though she still saw the young man behind him giving them a confused look.

Hans was chortling as he returned the hug, slapping René on the back exuberantly, "René! My god! Helga told me you were dead!!"

René's smile got wider, but rather than answer, he turned to lead them both back toward the corridor, "This way, please, we have a lovely private dining room I've set for us. Much better for discussing old secrets than sitting in the midst of a busy café," he winked back at them, "Or our busy dining room."

As soon as they stepped into the corridor, René opened a door to a room apparently nestled between the courtyard and the reception area, larger than it really needed to be for the old, ornate, single-family oak table at its centre, leaving space to add some panels to it, should a large group need accommodating. The decoration here was quite different than either their room or the reception area, the walls covered in old tapestries, with what had to be original stones showing between, except for the section of side-wall which held another set of large windows, just as in their suite, these partly open into that courtyard; one of the glowing glass doors she'd seen from the corridor, evidently. The chairs even looked comfortably, and recently, padded, and the table settings homey and solid rather than the pretty but frail china so popular these days. A small fireplace opposite the window was lit by a cheery fire, with a traditional cast iron pot hung over it, the room warmed perfectly and coloured in warm sunset.

It was all vaguely masculine for a dining room, but comforting, and Helga immediately relaxed. "No, the colonel is not with us. Though he is well, I believe. Still with his wife, caring for their garden, was the last I heard."

"Good for him. I am glad he made it through; glad you all made it through. Sit, sit! Red wine?"

They both nodded silently, though René had already turned to pour from one of the bottles open on the sideboard, besides several covered trays -and decanters, in addition to some sturdy covered dishes down the centre of the table.

Helga's old intrigue-instincts also noted the fourth table setting, and lack of a fourth person.

She had not been able to help thinking this afternoon. If René's repeated use of 'our' was a new wife, or Madame Edith, René would not bother playing these games with Helga. It *could*, perhaps, be Miss Yvette, but she had not been close to the woman, it hardly seemed necessary... Though possibly the man simply missed their old games. Which she had to admit she sympathized with.

René handed them each a glass where they had stayed standing by the fire before raising his own to toast, "I'm afraid I have to delay supper, somewhat. There is someone I want you to meet, but they appear to be late-"

A voice from the glass doors interrupted the slightly acerbic comment with a fond grumble, "You cannot call me late when I was trying to repair your baking oven again."

"*My* baking oven, 'Ubair Solovyov?" she was distantly aware that René's voice went unbearably tender as he turned to tease the new arrival, "We both know you are quite fond of the things I make with that oven. And you could have left it for tomorrow; *I* was trying to arrange a surprise."

Her eyes were wide as she watched the wiry man raise his head, replacing that completely unfamiliar fly-away crop of wispy, past-the-shoulders, grey-streaked brown hair with tanned, even features broken by a wide, happy grin toward René, noticeable feathers of wrinkles stretching into his cheeks and temples and deep lines across his forehead, his scarred hands blindly, nimbly, finishing the little buttons of his pale blue, very fashionable suit jacket. "Which is why my shirts keep getting tighter, yes. And 'owever lovely your 'surprises' always are, my dear René, it 'as been a long time since they were surprising." Then the man, who she would not have recognized without hearing his voice, though the accent might still have tricked her, were it not for René's presence, noticed the other people in the room and narrow hazel eyes even more familiar than the voice widened at seeing her, his light voice rising familiarly higher, " 'elga??"

She was laughing as he covered the few steps over and drew her into a tight hug entirely uncharacteristic of the man she'd once known, though she was pleased to return it, "We thought you dead as well, lieutenant!"

Gruber pulled back, smiling widely and examining her features much as she was his, "René's life would 'ave been in even more danger than it usually was if we 'ad stayed. Being thought dead was a gift we could not ignore."

She shook her head, grinning, "Why do I think this explains what happened to lieutenant Deutschman and his vanished tank? You'll no doubt be pleased to hear he did eventually wake up." Which had not stopped the general from having a week of fits about the whole thing, of course.

The lieutenant snorted, not an ounce of regret showing on features that *were* vaguely familiar, if she looked carefully -certainly the perfume brought back memories! " 'e was an abusive ass. I was not excessive."

For a moment, Helga once again could not help but stare. The accent was so very French, even more so than René's really, and even the lieutenant's old arrogance somehow changed to something more... snooty; which, if she ignored who he was... made him seem like any Frenchman they had met in their recent travels.

Hans laughed from behind her, "I remember more than a few that would have cheered if you *had* been!"

Gruber suddenly stepped away from her, his expression becoming oddly reminiscent of the old lieutenant; controlled and closed. Even in those days, she had knows that what emotions he *had* shown were almost certainly a long way from what he had truly felt, but it was still a shock to see the change. He did not quite snap his heels, but she suspected it was close before he stopped himself and nodded cordially instead, a bit of a grim cast to his mouth compared to the simple pleasure he'd let show initially, "Captain Geering."

Helga stepped back to take Hans' arm and grin at their old friends reassuringly, "No more captain than I am private; or you lieutenant. Hans is my husband."

René's head was tilted, watching them quizzically, "Husband? Were you not married, ca- Mr. Geering?"

Hans snorted, patting her hand, "Hans, please René. And," he shrugged with a faint grimace as Helga hugged his arm close, "My wife demanded a divorce when she found out I had gone over to the Allies. I found Helga, and the colonel, for that matter, as I acted as translator to help the British question prisoners after D-day. I recommended her to serve her time in our offices." He grinned at her and pecked her cheek with his usual simple affection, "We all know what a wonder she is at keeping things running smoothly."

Helga had been glad to see Gruber lose his descending mask at the sound of René's voice, his shoulders relaxing with a few blinks, as though waking from a dream, as he turned toward the Frenchman. And stole his wine glass even as Hans spoke. René let the glass go and wrapped his arm around the former lieutenant as though the position were as familiar as breathing, his attention politely on Hans and Helga.

When her husband paused to take a sip of wine, Helga nodded at the two men, "I take it the two of you stayed together after you escaped the burning of the café?" Then she frowned thoughtfully, "Was Solovyov really a good choice of names to use?" For all the troubles they'd had with the communist Résistance, she had not thought that having a Russian surname would let you pass any more unnoticed in France, even 20 years ago, than a German one.

Gruber rolled his eyes at René, though she noticed his free arm had found its way around René's waist and he was leaning on the man as though it was a very familiar spot indeed. "I am known as 'Ubair Duprés-"

René's arm tightened visibly; though, if anything, it was him that tipped closer to the solid man he held, "My mother's maiden name."

Gru- Hubert's lack of reply, other than an unutterably soft look, said quite plainly just how seriously the use of the name was taken by both men.

Hans cleared his throat and she gave him a quick, sharp look of warning, which he caught and which caused him to close his mouth and blink before speaking more carefully than she suspected he'd been about to, "And.. Solovyov?'

Hubert looked back at them with the same quiet confidence he'd always had, calmer now that he was not trying to hide anything, at least not from them, "My father's name. Which I 'ave not used since I was very young."

That René had trusted her and Hans with the secret warmed Helga's heart, though she suspected it was as much out of simple pleasure of being *able* to share what had sounded like an endearment; one kept very private.

René hummed and turned toward the table, waving them towards the far seats, "Come, sit; I made supper a picnic-style assortment of salads, bread and meats so we could eat at our own pace while chatting. 'Ubair spends his days run ragged remodelling old rooms, and caring for ovens-"

"And tractors and orchards."

René responded to the practised grumble with a kiss to Hubert's neck before he gave him a gentle nudge into the chair nearest the door, "And many other things. Which is why I mother-hen him into sitting down and eating once I can drag him away."

Helga patiently let Hans push her chair in, smiling to herself to see René give Hubert's a nominal push as well, "Hans was very impressed by the fleet of farm equipment he saw. I assume they are your doing, Hubert?" Certainly she remembered the man understood organization. And she'd heard he was a fair mechanic.

Hubert smiled, real pride in his eyes that he'd only rarely had in the bad old days. "I always enjoyed working wit' my 'ands. Those old tractors are less frustrating than tanks, to be 'onest."

"And my oven?"

Hubert grimaced unhappily around a sip of wine, the expression bringing back a hint of the shadows that used to underscore his eyes in the past, "The chimney valve is truly on its way out, this time. I will 'ave to take it apart tomorrow after you get the morning bread done."

René groaned, his shoulders slumping as he poured himself a drink to replace the one his companion had stolen, and then sat with his back to the courtyard, "So lunch tomorrow will be cold..."

"You can always use the outside oven."

"That will hold a pork roast for supper."

Hubert perked up, eyes brightening with youthful enthusiasm, "Your rosemary pork wit' dumplings?"

Helga coughed to cover a laugh, "If René has been trying to fatten you up, you must indeed run ragged." Because he was distinctly leaner than he had been on rations and military calisthenics.

René answered rather grimly, "The first few years, food was... scarce." Hubert covered his hand on the table and René tried to smile at them, "We all tightened our belts. 'Ubair... had less to lose."

"René. It was not that bad."

René did not answer and they were all quiet for a bit, memories of the difficult years after the war thick in the air.

Hans finally broke the silence, looking at the lovely glass doors through which Helga could see the shadows of a little table surrounded by bushes, now that she faced it, "How did you buy this?"

The two inn owners looked at each other quickly, telling Helga there was definitely some intrigue involved. Unsurprisingly.

René finally spoke, seeming tense, "After I sent Edith and the girls to get her mother and Monsieur Leclerc out, that night, I went down to the cellar. I had just got the cuckoo clock into a pocket when something crashed above and a shelf fell on my 'ead, knocking me out," he gave Hubert a look that seemed to hold a very old complaint, "Which is where 'Ubair found me. He barely got us through to the garden before the building collapsed."

Helga took a large swallow, the roaring flames suddenly bright in her mind's eye. "I remember." For all the lieutenant had not always been her favourite person, it had been shocking to think him burning to death before them. She huffed sadly before looking at the half-familiar old man wreathed in laugh-lines, "I remember wondering if dying with René might possibly be something you would have chosen, even if you had had a chance to think it through." For all he hadn't been what she would have called 'brave'... he *had* been attached to the café-owner. Evidently enough so to run into a burning building.

Hubert raised René's hand to his lips, eyes stroking over the man's features with a gratitude that spoke more loudly than any words before he muttered, "If those murderous fools 'ad not already started two other fires near storerooms, which drew the colonel, and we two, into town..." She saw his hand clench white as his eyes closed and Helga looked away as René leaned close.

She took a shaky swallow of wine, Hans gently taking hold of her free hand as they pretended not to hear René whispering softly. She returned her husband's warm grip, thinking of the years of social tension they had lived through, together. Grateful that they had got through it all. Glad that their old co-conspirators had also had that chance.

They stopped averting their eyes when they heard René begin to uncover dishes, seeing him shake off his grim mood to nod at them, while Hubert sat silent, their chairs distinctly closer and his wine almost gone, "And what have the two of you been doing since the end of the war? How did you come by our humble inn?"

Hans was busy sniffing a rustic little bun with such a pleased look that she suspected René had not been lying about the quality of their kitchen, so she answered for them as René scooped potato salad and some salami onto Hubert's plate with a pointed look before taking olives and sardines for himself, "By the time we were released by the Allies, Hans was divorced. And we had taken to 'stepping out' together quite often," she shrugged, intrigued by the scoop of bean and corn salad she'd just put on her plate, "He asked me to marry him and I followed him to England."

Hans hummed appreciation around a bite of buttered bread before taking up the thread, "The British were really quite grateful for my services. They got me a job at a bank. When our children were old enough to start school, I had got to manager and hired Helga as my assistant."

Finally letting go his grim expression, Hubert snorted softly with a teasing smile that he did not deign to explain until he'd swallowed his mouthful of a potato salad that Helga was entirely certain was not made to any French recipe. She had not tasted that dressing since she'd been in Hamburg, before the war. "I imagine she runs your office even more efficiently than she did the colonel's."

Hans giggled, leaning in to kiss her cheek fondly, "Indeed. She has a *very* distinct reputation among the office ladies."

Helga shrugged, quite pleased with her work -*and* her reputation, regardless of tensions; also pleased with how well Hans appreciated it. "As to walking into your inn, it was entirely luck. Ernest, the youngest of the children, is now away at finishing school and we decided to take a holiday to revisit the past. We took the ferry to Cuxhaven and are slowly driving over to Nouvion, by way of Paris, where Hans asked me to marry him, and through the countryside we used to drive through..." she looked around them with a smile, "I am very glad your property was so lovely that we stopped to look and decided to see if you had room for the night."

AN:Deutschman got his name through encountering someone at the opportune moment who annoyed me, lol

s9e03 - mechanic

Cuxhaven (which has ferry to UK) to Nouvion by way of Paris

Chapter six: Mouche
jan 2022

AN:Because who doesn't want third-party oratory?

They had sat at that table late into the evening, sipping wine and nibbling at both the 'picnic' and the sweets that had lain covered on the sideboard, and some lovely spiced tea René had made with water that had been simmering in that pot on the fire.

Though the sweets had almost come to a bad end long before they were done with the savouries on the table.

" 'Ubair!"

René's sudden loud voice in the middle of a story Hans had been telling had made Helga jump in her seat as Hubert jerked out of his own seat, following René's eyes to the sideboard and suddenly speaking in a very commanding voice, "MOUCHE!! Non!"

Helga's eyes finally parsed the dark shadow besides one of the covered trays as a furry bundle, green eyes gleaming wide from nothing but darkness.

"Do not even *think* about it, you little demon," his voice on the high side, Hubert stalked toward the rather small cat that had a paw on a cloth cover, "Leeeettttt goooooo, come now, Mouche...."

Helga could hear René muttering under his breath, but he did not try to interfere with his lover's hunt. Which luckily was successful in rescuing whatever was under the flowery material from the furry beast. When Hubert snagged it vertically by the scruff -and then snuggled it to his chest, Helga asked idly, "Does mouche not mean fly in French?"

René rolled his eyes, though Helga did not particularly believe his annoyance toward the little creature now curled innocently against Hubert's chest, "It does. I do not care that it means kitty in German; it has left me to answer far too many questions to neighbours and employees. Luckily the little demon likes to jump, looking much as though it is flying. You would not believe what this one's," he nodded at a smirking Hubert, " *First* choice of names was."

Helga saw Hans' head tip to the side, and an odd little grin quirk his lips, "Charles?"

René's mouth was caught open, no doubt about to grumble further, and he stared at Hans in surprise as Hubert snickered, "How did you guess?"

Hans giggled, "I remembered that in Nouvion, he had named his dogs Kurt and Eric."

Helga choked on a swallow of wine and then could not stop giggling as René looked at all of them as though they were mad, reminding Helga of any number of conversations during the old days. "How does this lead to Charles?"

Hans hummed, "The colonel's name was Kurt von-"

"Strohm," René's eyes closed as he shook his head, sighing resignedly as Hubert started laughing wickedly, "And Eric von Klinkerhoffen. I suppose Charles de Gaulle was actually *less* dangerous than others you could have picked." He sat and drank his wine as the rest of them recovered from their humour and Hubert sat back down, and then he leaned over to scratch the purring monster's ears and kiss the corner of Hubert's mouth, "Well, I am glad to hear you were not merely trying to torture *me*."

As glad as she was that they were comfortable around she and Hans, Helga still let them have their privacy by looking away from the quiet murmurs that followed, letting herself be tempted by just one more scoop of René's cabbage slaw and reminding herself to get the recipe from him before they left. Listening to Hubert switch to muttering baby-talk without doubt aimed at his little Mouche made her chuckle again, remembering Hans surprising her with just how noodly he'd got with the kittens they'd gotten over the years 'for the children'. She was less than surprised when said softy leaned away from her with a smile, "You're a tiny fellow for getting in so much trouble."

But as she watched him reach out, much like René had, her amusement faded at seeing Hubert's expression close again as he fractionally turned, drawing his passenger away from Hans' touch. She stilled, not quite certain how to react to the rebuff. She slowly patted Hans' thigh, frowning at Hubert as her husband straightened back up with a hurt stiffness.

" 'Ubair?" René's voice was as confused as she felt.

She couldn't help but be a bit glad for the embarrassment appearing on Hubert's face. He met René's worried look with a grimace before straightening to face Hans, "Apologies cap-" his eyes closed on a frustrated breath, " 'ans."

Hans twitched slightly before shrugging, though he wore that stuffed look of the bad days when they encountered people who could not get past their hatred of Germans from the war, "If I've given insult, Hubert-"

Hubert waved his free hand to interrupt him, grunting annoyance, "You did not. It was years ago."

"What was?" Helga asked, striving for a calm voice.

Hubert looked at René again, and this time Helga was quite certain a blush was present under that tan. He only grimaced again at René's raised brows, and turned to Hans with a stubborn look, "Walking in on..." little Mouche squeaked at Hubert's extra cuddling and he seemed to make himself relax with an apologetic nuzzle, looking up at her and Hans regretfully, "I 'ad no right, but I could not stop myself being very jealous to walk in on you flirting with René-" Helga heard René sputter, but Hubert continued smoothly, "I am afraid it made me dislike you personally, 'ans, beyond the usual friction between our ranks. Something I never really set aside..."

Hans had been blinking in shock, much as René was, but he finally found his voice as Hubert went quiet. "Flirting??? With.. *René*????"

René turned to him, at that, and snorted, "You need not be quite *that* shocked, Hans." Helga, keeping out of what was plainly not her affair, swallowed a laugh at the irony in the man's voice, glad to see Hubert letting go of his bad humour enough to also have to press out a smile at his lover's ego.

Hans rolled his eyes at the former café-owner before going back to giving Hubert a frustrated look, "When did I ever flirt with René?"

Hubert's mouth twisted, but there was humour slowly appearing in his eyes, letting himself find amusement at the reactions, "Not long before you left...." he frowned, looking away in thought, "I think... it was after Madame Edith shot-" he suddenly turned to René with the look of someone just realizing something, a reaction they had all been having through the evening, "I assume those were not really 'ladies of the night'?"

René snorted, looking at all of them wryly, "No. Those dratted airmen." He looked at Hans, still very dry, "Yvette had stolen your gun, earlier, and we had changed the bullets for blanks. The airmen had tomato sauce under their blouses to appear shot."

Hubert sat back, rolling his eyes, but finally back to looking at ease, at least.

Hans, on the other hand, was suddenly giving her worried looks that made Helga roll her own eyes at him. As though she hadn't known what he and the colonel got up to at the café!

"I don't quite remember what we tried to do with the 'bodies' but..."

Hubert nodded, turning back to Hans, "The next morning, you were at the café when I came. 'olding René's 'ands and... offering 'im 'anything he wanted'."

Hans was shaking his head, laughing softly, "Not flirting, Hubert, only gratitude. René had... promised to pay off the policeman so that it being my gun would not get me in trouble. Further trouble," he rolled his eyes in old annoyance, "The colonel was angry with me..."

Hubert nodded, "My apologies, 'ans. It was a childish reaction."

Hans shrugged, relaxed as well, now, and smiling genially, "Understandable," he grinned at René, "We can just blame the Résistance for yet another mess."

They all snorted at that, René the loudest.

Both before and after that little interruption, they chatted, as she and Hans rarely had occasion to. And though she imagined René was as gregarious with everyone as he ever had been as the owner of a café, she also was quite certain that his and Hubert's public topics of conversation were even more circumspect than hers and Hans'. The people who knew *them* knew they were German; they did not truly make a secret of their history. Whereas René and Hubert...

And so they had talked of the Occupation, the Résistance and the Gestapo. Hubert laughing as much as she and Hans at some of René's explanations of the madcap schemes of the Résistance that they had known more or less of as they were happening. And René in turn groaning at some of the plots the colonel and general had hatched which had ended up as further chaos in the café.

She was grateful for Hans' arm sliding around her shoulders when she brought up Flick, much as Hubert clasped René's knee when she mentioned that Yvette had followed Bertorelli when the Eyeties were recalled, avoiding the danger she would have faced during the madness before de Gaulle took control, and that Madame Edith had still seemed quite happy with her undertaker when the British had liberated the town.

She and Hubert had both laughed at the discomfited look René and Hans had shared at hearing of the time Flick had made her kiss Hubert in nothing but her underthings to blackmail him with the picture. And Hubert and René had been agog when Hans boasted of their children, though she did suspect neither of them had ever shown interest in even one, so the notion of having six might well seem mad. It had certainly worked to keep Hans busy, however.

--

It had been lovely, and well worth the late night, even after a day in the car, but she'd been glad to sleep in this morning, and hoped René and Hubert got to do so as well, though she suspected not.

Certainly René had seemed like he'd been up since dawn when she made her way to the dining room by way of the inner courtyard to ask for a basket to take to that cozy little garden sitting area by their room. He'd taken her right to the large kitchen, every one of the old soot-caked stones making up half the walls speaking of centuries where a roomful of cooks and helpers would have been busy all day. Now, at least at mid-morning, it was only René and a couple of ladies intent on chopping piles of vegetables on a workbench that looked to have been made from solid slabs of some very large tree -also likely more than a century ago, and René had cheerfully loaded her down with what she recognized as leftovers from their meal the previous night, along with fresh bread still warm from... well, perhaps he'd made use of his outside oven after all, because she had heard Hubert swearing in French from beside a stone dome as tall as the high-ceilinged room that might well have seen the French Revolution.

It had been quite marvellous to sit in the sun and have a leisurely meal with good wine and strong coffee, kept warm over their own little outside brick oven, though this one was distinctly new, and likely used more as a decorative fire than anything. All the while staring at the peaceful countryside through the barely-green branches of their privacy hedge; listening to distant workers calling to each other... and no plots to thwart or hatch.

Though it needed to be said that she might actually prefer to have worked on a plot rather than the knitting she was trying to learn. So long as no one was at risk of being shot, of course. She'd almost tried to convince Hans to sneak to the kitchen and steal some sweets after he came back from a walk, just for old-times' sake. She suspected catching the attempt, as he no doubt would, would have made René laugh.

If she'd had any of the children along, René's kitchen would definitely have gotten ransacked.

She settled for making Hans accompany her for a long stroll in the afternoon. And stealing snow peas they found already ready on a trellis behind the large building behind the inn itself that Hans told her was mostly Hubert's work area -which the usual smell of a garage rather gave away, while a section, which was surrounded with greenery much as their suite's little garden was, was their living space.

"Hubert was very apologetic when we crossed paths in the orchard over there," Helga followed his vaguely pointing finger into the rows of trees, bare except for those white and pink blooms, that backed onto the garage at one end before dipping with the gentle slope a hundred yards in. Though now that she paid more attention, some of those trees looked gnarled as vines, while others were so thin they had to be new growth, with odd wrappings on them that looked disturbingly like bandages. And those blossoms were not all alike at all... Hubert really had become quite a gardener, hadn't he? "We chatted for a bit about the property as he let me help him push up that hill to this shop a small tractor that has apparently decided to stutter to a stop. Even took me on a stroll through their quarters before he went back to his work, and he said they hoped to invite us for a nightcap after supper, so long as René could get away."

Helga looked at the men's section of building, "It looks quite roomy."

"Umm, it is. Very comfortable. Though I have the feeling neither of them takes much time away from taking care of the inn."

Helga huffed a laugh, "I remember René and Madame Edith did not seem to spend much time away from the café. Except when the Résistance interfered."

Hans chuckled, "Or we did."

"Umm. True."

"I cannot imagine working so many hours for the bank."

"I expect it is different when you own it. Though I would have thought they had enough from that cuckoo clock that they could afford to take it easy."

As they meandered along the edge of the orchard, Hans silently crunched on peas Helga had handed him, and she wondered what the property would look like at the height of summer, with everything deep green with aggressive life. Not to mention the no doubt constant flow of visitors at the inn.

"Actually, Hubert hinted a little hesitantly- It is *still* odd to think he was so personally angry at me." Helga tugged his elbow closer to her side and patted his hand silently, smiling a bit at her soft husband. It had taken getting used to, when he was the only friendly face to be had, but she had eventually adjusted to the lack of aggressiveness. And discovered it was quite pleasant to be able to force him to listen to reason. Hans sighed and turned his head to press a kiss to her temple, "Yes, well. I rather think that is the only reason he was so open. Even to the point of hinting that they tried to live an easier life, at some point. And were both quickly grouchy. He tried to say *René* was unhappy but... he also gazed out at the fields with.. distinct pleasure."

"I suppose it *is* rather difficult to imagine René without a reason to interact with people, even if he *did* used to pretend to be so annoyed all the time-"

Hans snorted, "I'm sure he *was* annoyed. At we Germans, and short rations, and the Résistance-"

Helga cut in dryly, "And Madame Edith interfering with his affairs."

Hans frowned, "I... hope he does not..."

Helga patted his hand again, "I'm sure René is as capable of faithfulness as you are, darling."

Hans looked at her quickly, worried again, though he settled when he saw her expression, "Yes. Let's hope."

They strolled on through the trees, nodding at a squad of workmen who gave them polite smiles as they discussed something, with much arm-waving, around a tree that was rather sickly-looking, compared to its burgeoning neighbours, and Helga let Hans babble on about other tidbits Hubert had apparently imparted during their little bout of work. She found herself thinking of the old René. Who was indeed mostly grumpy and tired.

And, which she did not want Hans to twitch over again, who did indeed seem to sleep, or at least kiss and ogle, everything in a skirt. Including herself. Well. Not *kiss*, but he had stared at her bosom just as much as Hans had.

And yet, even when she had first walked into the inn, not only had he not ogled, he had also had a distinctly tender look when he had hinted at Hubert's presence, though she hadn't known it was Hubert, then, of course. But that was not a look he had ever worn in Nouvion. Not even for the pretty Miss Yvette. As... well, shocking, really, as it was to see him touching *Hubert* with all the care of any loving spouse, it was more telling that he would wear such a look at the mere thought of his lover.

She could remember the two of them occasionally working together with reasonable friendliness, and René's jumpiness at Hubert's admiration had never been accompanied by any cruelty for the lieutenant's peculiarities. But she would never have actually thought of René sharing Hubert's sentiments. Nor, to be honest, would she have thought, at the time, that he would care for *anyone* for 20 years. Perhaps the lieutenant had been right and René was 'not the marrying kind' and had simply needed to meet the right man. She grinned to herself; Hubert would love the idea.

She tugged Hans' elbow, leaning close to him, smiling at his automatic kiss to her temple. Watching René be just as easily -and *happily*- affectionate was pleasant, but it stood to be said that Hubert's so open, and openly *joyful*, expression, was what spoke of the power of love.

But it still left her terribly curious as to how they had got to that point.

AN:blame OH for Mouche. he named our first cat Mouchecat, which took me years to get used to, seeing as I had only recently left Quebec, and 'mouche' is a fly, thank you kindly

s5e17 - kitty
S3e06 - I would do anything for you, s4e01 they end up in the POW camp, and s4e02 is when Hans ends up in London
s3e05 - yvette steal hans' gun

article on the purges When I first started researching a novel about France during the Second World War, I was expecting to find horrors that took place during the dark years of the Nazi Occupation. Instead, I was surprised to discover that, for thousands of women, the Liberation marked the beginning of a different nightmare. At least 20,000 French women are known to have been shorn during the wild purge that occurred in waves between 1944 to 1945 — and the historian Anthony Beevor believes the true figure may be higher.

Back to Fanfic
Back to The Canadian Wanderer's homepage