It took Christophe two days to locate a car we could use to transport the wounded American soldier. On the first of June, I set out with Kenny and Ike, who had fully recovered from whatever it was that had been ailing him. There was a nervous energy in the car, since we usually didn't go on missions during the day. However, with the curfew in effect, driving around in the night was a sure-fire way to end up in gaol, and so we were forced to do it by daylight. Fortunately, the drive was a short one, which gave us less time to get worked up, and less time in which we might get caught.
I pulled up in front of the farm house, checking the gun at my hip. For all we knew it could be a trap, and so we were all excessively cautious. However, the woman who answered the door when Kenny knocked was portly and old, with a friendly smile upon her face. I never underestimated anyone, but she soon put us all at ease, plying us with food and wine that she'd surely been saving for years. To the French who opposed the Germans, which is to say most of them, the Maquis were all heroes, and they were treated as such by most people they encountered. I found it ironic that none of us who had come on this mission were actually French, but the woman seemed appreciative, nonetheless.
Finally, after thanking the woman for her hospitality approximately a million times, she led us upstairs to where she was hiding the American.
He was asleep on a pile of blankets, tucked into the corner of the attic. I approached him, as Kenny and Ike asked the woman questions; how long he had been here, if he'd had proper medical care, and the like. He was heavily bandaged, but something about him looked very familiar. He was beginning to wake up as I stood over him, and he peered groggily at me.
"Kenny," I called, "Come have a look."
He walked over to me, and stared at the man blankly, but smiled as recognition dawned upon him.
"Well, if it isn't Stan. Or Pfc. Marsh, if you prefer!"
"I don't," Stan rasped out, smiling.
The drive back to Christophe's went without incident, and soon we were hauling Stan up the stairs to the flat, careful not to bump him against anything. Though he'd been in the old woman's care for about a week, he was far from healed, and had a badly mangled leg, among other severe injuries. I hoped Kyle would be able to help him, especially since he'd been so kind to Kenny and I on the plane ride over.
Ike had gone ahead to open the hole in the closet, but because it was still daylight we couldn't risk having Kyle come out into the main room, so he waited for us there, anxious to help out. Stan was wincing and cursing as we roughly pulled him through the wall, and I felt terribly sorry for him. But soon he was sprawled out on Kyle's small bed, and Kyle began to gently remove his clothing and bandages. It was all much worse than I had expected.
Aside from the twisted and torn up leg, a great deal of his skin was either torn or badly burned. Additionally, he hadn't had any proper medical care since the crash, and his wounds were festering, full of infection.
"I need that box above your head, Gregory," Kyle said, voice shaking, "And if someone could boil some water for me, and get me some wash cloths, I'd appreciate it."
Kenny ran off to take care of the water, and I handed Kyle the box, noting that his hands were shaking as badly as his voice had been.
As Kyle sorted through his medical supplies, Stan weaved in and out of consciousness, moaning and gasping for air as Kyle inspected his wounds.
"Did you use sulfa power or pills?" Kyle asked him.
"My kit was burned in the wreck," Stan groaned out, "So I haven't had any kind of treatment other than bandages."
Kyle nodded, accepting the water and rags Kenny brought him. He gently washed Stan's wounds, and covered them in sulfa power he had in his kit. He then re-bandaged the wounds, and pulled the blankets up over Stan, who had passed out once more.
"I don't know how much I can help him," he said to me, "I can't do much for his leg, and I've never treated anyone so badly injured. He needs to be in a hospital."
"I'll see if there's any way I can arrange transport for him," I said, "but communications from England have been sparse lately. I think they're gearing up for the invasion, so I don't know if they'd be willing to do a lift at the moment."
Kyle nodded, staring at Stan anxiously.
"You just do the best you can. No one can ask for more than that," I said, and then left the room to give him some time with his brother, who had been loitering in the corner the entire time.
Kenny met me in the main room as I exited the closet.
"I have to go return the car," he said.
I nodded at him, and grabbed his arm impulsively.
"Be careful, alright?"
"Of course!" he replied, walking out the door and leaving me alone to my thoughts.
I had planned out a mission for me, Clyde, and Kenny for that evening, and so I spent the rest of the afternoon finalizing the plans, listening to the soft rumble of conversation between Ike and Kyle. I fell asleep leaning over the papers on the table.
I awoke some time later, to a nearly silent flat. I could hear Kenny, presumably, moving about in the bedroom, getting ready to go.
"Oh, you're up!" he said jovially, buttoning up his shirt, "I didn't want to wake you."
"I wouldn't mind, really. I hate sleeping all afternoon."
"You might need the extra energy tonight though," he replied, "I have a feeling it's going to be a rough one."
He didn't know how right he was.
The mission was supposed to be a relatively easy one: Sneak into one of the munitions factories, set some explosives in the machinery, and get out. Dangerous, yes, but we'd done it before with nary a problem.
We sneaked into the factory easily, but we were halfway through setting our explosives when we heard the drone of bomber planes approaching. We all froze, hoping desperately that the bombers weren't targeting the factories tonight. No such luck.
The first explosion knocked me under a machine, where I remained for the duration of the bombing, relatively protected. I was pummelled by flying debris, and the wind was knocked out of me as something heavy hit my ribs, but nothing lethal came my way, and as soon as the bombing stopped, I was able to drag myself out, coughing in the dusty air.
The roof of the building had been completely destroyed, and I stared at the starry sky in amazement, stunned by what had just happened. I took inventory of my injuries: a small cut on my head that was bleeding steadily, scratches across my arms, and a very tender spot on my ribs that I knew would be spectacularly bruised in the coming days. I was lucky those were my only injuries.
I quickly set about looking for my companions. I called out their names a few times, but received no reply. Finally I found them, huddled together. Clyde was missing part of his head, and all I could see of Kenny was his legs sticking out from under a pile of rubble. His leg was still warm when I touched it, but he wasn't moving, and it looked as though he'd been crushed.
I choked back a sob, backing away until I hit debris behind me, falling onto my arse. I didn't want to leave them there, but I knew swarms of German soldiers would be arriving any moment, so I had to get out as quickly as possible. I ran my hands through Clyde's pockets to remove his identification papers, but before I could get to Kenny I heard the unmistakable sound of German boots on the pavement outside. Panicking, I climbed through a broken window, nearly slicing my hands open on the shards of glass. I dropped into a back alley, and sat for a moment, trying to collect myself. I tried not to think of Kenny, concentrating instead on the sounds of the soldiers rushing about on the other side of the building.
When the coast seemed clear, I ran back home as fast as I could, favouring side streets that took me longer, but were ultimately safer The last thing I needed in my battered and bloodied state was to run into any soldiers. Thankfully I made it home without seeing another soul.
When I got up to the flat, Christophe looked up, expectantly. He scrambled to his feet when he saw the state I was in.
"Where are Kenny and Clyde?" he asked as I walked in, clearly alone.
"Dead. Both – both of them are dead," I answered, fighting back tears.
I didn't give a damn about Clyde, as awful as that sounds, but for all our joking about on the subject, Kenny really had become like a brother to me. I couldn't imagine going on without him.
Christophe came at me, a crazed look upon his face, and he grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me.
"What happened?" he demanded harshly.
"The planes... bombers – didn't you hear them? They hit the factory while we were in it."
He glared at me for a moment, and all I could do was stare back pathetically, my mouth hanging open, hoping desperately that I wouldn't start crying.
"I'm sorry, Christophe," I choked out, "I'm so sorry."
His face finally softened, and he distracted me from my sorrow in the best possible manner: by closing the gap between us and pressing his lips to mine.
I felt the tears I had been fighting spill over, running down my cheeks, but it hardly mattered, because Christophe's mouth was working passionately against mine, and it was better than I had ever anticipated. I put my hands on his cheeks, pulling him even closer, and I felt his arms move from my shoulders, around, and down my back.
I moaned as he pulled away, checking my face as if to make sure I was ok with this. I was more than ok with it, and I whispered, "Yes, yes," as he leaned back in toward me.
He pulled at my shirt in the back, sliding his hands underneath and caressing the skin hidden there. I pulled away, wincing as one of his hands gripped my ribs.
"What is it?" he asked, looking confused.
I pulled up the side of my shirt to look at my ribs for the first time. They were more discoloured than I expected, already dark purple and swollen. Christophe sighed and pulled away from me.
"What are you doing?" I asked, slightly panicked.
"You need medical care," he said, as he walked over to the closet.
"I'm fine!" I called after him, but he waved a hand at me dismissively.
I sat on the sofa, fighting back tears, frustrated at being so close to having what I wanted, and still distraught over Kenny's death. I didn't know how I would make it without him. When I first met him, I never would have thought that I would grow so close to someone completely my opposite, but that was exactly what had happened.
I buried my head in my hands as I thought about how scared Kenny had been on the flight over. I had assumed, at the time, that I would probably be killed during my time here, but Kenny having the same fate had never really occurred to me. He seemed above death, somehow.
By the time Christophe returned to the main room, with Kyle in tow, I had gotten myself worked up once more, and was fighting back tears. Kyle knelt before me, and immediately began examining my wounds.
"I can't do much about your ribs," he said after having a look at them, "but I can bandage your head and arms, if you like."
"I'm fine," I insisted again, standing up and brushing past him, feeling that a bath might be in order. If nothing else it would be a good way to sort out my thoughts.
Kyle looked offended by my brusqueness, but I didn't care at the moment. I was feeling overwhelmed, and if I couldn't have my way then I wanted to be alone for a while.
For the second time that night, my plans didn't go as I'd intended. From behind the closed bathroom door, I heard Christophe speaking quietly to Kyle, but the sound was drowned out when I turned on the tap. I was startled when Christophe opened the bathroom door, letting himself in without a word. I had just pulled off my shirt, and I stared at him, shocked by his audacity.
"Do you mind?" I said with a sigh.
"No, go on," he said, watching me.
It felt like a dare, and I wasn't about to chicken out. I stared back at him for a moment, before slowly unbuckling my belt, and letting my trousers fall to the floor. I realized I was a little too out of it to come off as seductively as I hoped, but Christophe didn't seem to mind. He licked his lips, and stepped toward me slowly, reaching out to briefly caress my face. My heart was racing as he knelt in front of me, reaching up to my hips and running his hands down my thighs, pulling my pants down as he went. I was half hard already, but he ignored that completely, planting a small kiss on my stomach, and one on my chest as he stood back up. I blinked in surprise as he walked past me, heading to the tub where he turned the tap off.
"I'm not letting you bathe me," I said, completely thrown off by his behaviour. I didn't know what he was expecting to happen, to be honest, but that turned me on even more.
"I wasn't offering," he said, smirking.
I gave him a quizzical look before stepping toward the tub, easing myself in carefully. He perched himself on the edge of the tub, watching me like a hawk. His behaviour was intimidating, but I wasn't about to let him know that. I took the wash cloth, and gently went over my skin with it, mindful of my wounds. Christophe said nothing, but occasionally reached over to caress a bit of exposed skin, fingers gliding over my chest, torso, and arms before pulling away, as if he was afraid to touch me. The uncertainty of the situation made me painfully aroused by the time I had washed all the blood and grime off me. As I draped the washcloth over the faucet, Christophe knelt down at the side of the tub, leaning forward to capture my lips once more. He placed a hand on my chest, and I wondered briefly if he could feel my heart pounding against my rib cage, but that thought didn't last long as his hand trailed down my stomach, dipping under the water to rest just above my cock. He didn't move for a moment, apparently content with torturing me. I writhed against his hand and gripped his shoulder and wrist, hoping to spur him on, but he only smirked against my mouth before leaning further over me to lick my neck.
Just when I thought I couldn't take any more, he pulled his mouth off me, and finally encircled my cock with his hand. I moaned loudly and arched my back, watching a satisfied smirk form on his face through half-lidded eyes. He crushed our mouths together again, and the movement of his tongue against mine matched the steady rhythm of his hand. It wasn't long before I was panting into his mouth, moaning unabashedly. I'm sure the half-formed sentences coming out of my mouth were absolute rubbish, and I heard myself begging him for more without even realizing I was speaking. I was pushed over the edge when he gripped my hair with his free hand, pulling my head back to suck at my throat. I whined pathetically as I came, gripping his wrist tightly as all the tension left my body.
-Yaahoooo-
He planted soft kisses along my neck and collarbones as I came down, gasping for air. I don't think I had ever come so hard in my entire life, which amazed me considering handjobs hadn't been exciting to me since I was a boy. When I finally caught my breath, I reached over to him, groping at his cock through his trousers. He was hard as a rock, but shifted away from me as I reached for his fly.
"I thought I'd return the favour," I said, watching him as he stood up. I laughed nervously at the wet handprint across his crotch.
"Don't feel like you have to," he said, watching me cautiously.
"I want to, really! Come here," I said, reaching a hand out toward him. He stepped just out of my reach.
"Later," he said, but he didn't move any further away.
He stood there silently for a moment, and I felt on edge once more, not knowing what exactly he wanted me to do.
"Christophe..." I said, reaching for him again.
"I said later," he responded, walking toward the door, "Anyway, you're all messy again."
He walked out, shutting the door behind him. I stared at the door for a moment, wondering what he meant, until I looked down at the bath water. I was stewing in my own juices, so to speak. I sighed and reached over to drain the tub.
The flat was dark and quiet when I finally left the bathroom. Another wave of sorrow hit me as I thought of Kenny once more; the stupid, flirty comments he'd make when I walked around in only a towel, and how he'd throw my clothes at my face when I'd ask him to hand them to me. I felt awful for having the best sexual encounter of my life so soon after his demise. However, considering how Kenny was with sex, I thought maybe he wouldn't mind so much. After all, it wasn't as if I wasn't upset about the situation... I just needed to blow off some steam, so to speak, and Kenny had once said to me that sex was the best therapy when one was upset.
When I reached the bedroom, the door was shut. I hesitated outside it, and I was soon glad I did, because I could hear a very distinctive set of sounds coming from inside the room: the sheets shifting in a steady rhythm, and Christophe moaning very quietly. I flushed with anger and embarrassment, not really knowing what to do. I didn't understand why Christophe felt the need to go and pleasure himself, when I had been perfectly willing to help him out. I didn't know what he was playing at, so I sat on the sofa, arms crossed, and waited to hear him finish. I was exhausted, and my head and ribs were both beginning to hurt badly, and I slipped into a deep sleep before I knew it.
I awoke in the morning to the sound of Christophe grumbling to himself. As usual, I was pressed against a warm chest, and I assumed for a moment that it was his. I thought how sweet he was to have carried me to bed at some point, and I didn't mind in the slightest that the towel I had wrapped around my waist had slipped off in the night, leaving me completely nude under the sheets. But as the last vestiges of sleep left my head, I realized the sounds Christophe was making were coming from the other side of the room. I jerked up in surprised, to find myself face to face with none other than Kenny.
"What – how are you here?" I asked, completely confused.
"Well, good morning to you, too," he said, grinning at me.
"No... Kenny... I thought... I could have sworn you were dead!"
I glanced over at Christophe, who was sitting on his bed, watching us with a confused scowl.
"Clyde is dead, idiot. Kenny got home after you fell asleep on the sofa," he said.
I felt as though my brain was playing tricks on me. The more awake I became, the more the certainty of what had happened slipped away. There was something about rubble... and touching Kenny's leg? But the harder I tried to remember, the fuzzier these thoughts became. I stared at him blankly for a moment, trying to concentrate, and he just stared back with a serious look upon his face.
"Maybe it was a dream?" I said, "But then, how did you get back last night? I didn't see you at the factory, and I was home for a while before I fell asleep."
I glanced over at Christophe as I said this, a blush growing on my face, but he only stared back impassively. I thought briefly of the night before, and it was then that I realized that I was still pressed up against Kenny, who wasn't wearing much more than I was. I pulled away quickly, clutching the blankets to my chest as I realized my groin had been pressed against his bare thigh for quite some time.
I saw Kenny grin at me out of the corner of my eye, but I was watching Christophe, who only glared at me before rising from his bed and stalking out of the room, muttering curses under his breath.
"I did offer, you arsehole!" I called after him, angrily.
"What's this?" Kenny asked, still grinning at me.
"Nothing," I said quickly, "Don't even ask. Last night was... odd, to say the least."
"Odd in a good way? Did you guys fuck?" he asked, crude as ever.
"No, but... well, no, Kenny. I don't want to talk about it. Are you ok, though? Were you injured at all in the bombing? I could have sworn something happened to you..."
He looked perfectly healthy, and didn't have so much as a scratch on him.
"Oh, I'm fine," he said, "Luck of the Irish, and all that bullshit. You look like you got banged up a bit, though."
"I'm alright. Did you see Clyde?"
"Ah, no," he said, looking evasive for some reason, "I got out of there as fast as I could, you know?"
I nodded at him, wondering if he would leave soon so that I could get dressed. He stared blankly at the wall, absorbed in his own thoughts.
"Anyway," he said, finally, "I'm going to go see Bebe. Tell her I'm ok."
"Are you two, you know... an item?" I asked, hoping I wasn't stepping out of bounds.
"Well, my dear Gregory," he said, leaning over and looping his arm around my shoulder, "Let's just say I do things with her that I'll bet you wish Christophe would do with you."
He only laughed when I threw my pillow at his head.
That night Christophe made me stay in, not allowing me to go to work due to the gash across my temple. He claimed he didn't want any of the Bosche to see it and ask awkward questions, but my hair covered it completely, and anyway, I was perfectly capable of coming up with a lie about its origin. After all, the Allies didn't just bomb factories.
I completely ignored Kenny's suggestion that Christophe might actually be worried about my health, and spent the afternoon writing a missive to Wendy, to whom I was supposed to speak that night. I was hoping she might know a doctor who had experience with war wounds, so we could get Stan the help he needed. I'd been assured by my contacts that all transport back to England was out of the question at the moment, so we were trying to find help wherever we could.
As I was halfway through writing the letter, Christophe came in, took one look at it after pulling it out from under my hands, and crumpled it into a ball, scowling. I stood up, enraged, and tried to grab it from him, but he pushed me away, and threw the paper into a garbage bin.
"I can speak to her myself," he said angrily, "We don't need your flowery fucking language just to ask her a question."
"What the hell is your problem?" I shouted, irritated by the way he'd been treating me all day.
"I don't have a problem," he said, glaring at me.
"Clearly you do, Christophe. You kissed me last night. You seduced me, and then you won't even let me touch you. And now you're acting as if I did something wrong, when I didn't do a damn thing!"
"You wanted me to kiss you!" he shouted back, confusing the hell out of me.
"I never said I didn't, you fucking pigheaded arsehole! But that doesn't excuse any of your behaviour since then! All day you've alternated between avoiding me and picking fights, and I'm fucking sick of it! I don't even understand what you want from me anymore!"
He stood frozen for a moment, looking as though he was trying to contain his anger. I braced myself for a blow as he stepped toward me, but instead of hitting me he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me square on the mouth, his tongue pushing insistently between my lips. I grabbed his hips to steady myself, but he pushed me onto the table, on my back, pulling my thighs up around his waist. I gasped as he ground himself against me, wondering exactly what I had done to make him so hard. The thought fled my mind as he pushed his hands up under my shirt. I arched into his touch, moaning as his fingers skimmed over my nipples. It seemed he was testing to see if I liked that, which I understood, as I'd had lovers in the past who wouldn't let me anywhere near theirs. He quickly pushed my shirt all the way up and sucked at one, pulling on the other with his fingers. He alternated between stroking gently with his tongue and fingers, and biting and pinching at them. The contrasting feelings made me squirm with pleasure, and I was bucking hard against him when someone opened the door from downstairs.
I turned to look, but Christophe didn't stop his ministrations as Kenny entered the room, freezing when he caught sight of us.
"Uh. Whoa," was all he said, looking more stunned than I might have expected.
"Get lost," Christophe said, finally pulling his mouth off my chest.
"Ok, well, uh, I just wanted to tell Christophe that we're opening the bar, so... wow," he said, as Christophe began to unbuckle my belt, "I'll be locking the door behind me, then."
"Please," I whimpered, not even sure myself if I was talking to Kenny, or to Christophe, who was reaching his hand down my pants.
My attention was torn from Kenny as he made a hasty exit, and I heard the door close as Christophe grasped my dick. I writhed beneath him, trying to wiggle out of my trousers while not making him lose his grip on me. He leaned over me again, capturing my lips in a frenzy, while maintaining a quick rhythm with his hand. All thoughts of maintaining my dignity were swept from my mind as I tore my mouth from his, moaning and planting kisses along his jaw, as I finally succeeded in pulling my trousers off my hips.
"Come on," I whispered, easing my hands under the back of his trousers, gripping his arse and pulling him down as I lifted my hips against him. He rutted against me shamelessly, bracing his elbows upon the table and tangling his hands in my hair, running his lips along my neck.
"Please, Christophe," I gasped, needing to feel him inside me. I absolutely despised begging, but I felt so desperate by that point that I thought I would just die if he didn't fuck me.
He pulled away and panic shot through me, as he stood and walked into the bedroom. For a moment I thought I had said something wrong, and was relieved when he returned, carrying a small jar of petroleum jelly. I kicked my trousers off my feet, and pulled my shirt over my head as he approached me. I laid back as he gripped my ankles, spreading my legs and hooking my heels over his shoulders.
He dipped his fingers into the jar, and stroked my entrance, slowly easing one finger into me. I could tell he was trying to be gentle, but I wanted nothing to do with that. I reached down and grabbed his hip, and pushed back against his finger.
"Hurry," I said, watching as a smirk formed on his face.
"Eager, eh?" he asked, pushing a second finger in and stroking my dick with his other hand.
"As if you aren't?" I challenged.
"Hm, touché," he replied, leaning forward to kiss me once more. My ankles were still hooked over his shoulders, and the new position left me completely spread open under him, and feeling deliciously vulnerable. He worked his fingers inside me as we kissed, and I gasped in pleasure as he pressed against my prostate, stroking it a few times before removing his fingers completely. I was shaking with anticipation as he unzipped his trousers, pulling them down to reveal an impressively large cock, red and swollen from the frotting we'd done.
I reached over into the jar of petroleum jelly, swiping a generous amount and reaching for him. He allowed me to spread the jelly onto his cock, moaning appreciatively as I worked him in my hand.
His eyes fluttered shut as he humped against me, but he pulled out of my grasp after a moment. He watched my face as he lined up against me, never breaking eye contact as he pushed forward. I'd never felt such intensity during sex, and as he slowly eased into me, I wondered exactly what this meant to him. I couldn't even sort out my own feelings at that moment, much less classify his.
When he was fully inside me, he kissed me gently, but that tenderness was short-lived, as his pace picked up and he began to thrust violently into me. I tried to concentrate on what was happening, but as he angled his hips just right, I was blinded by pleasure. I grasped his shoulders and let him work me over thoroughly.
There was a symphony of tell-tale sounds in the room: The table creaking under us, Christophe's belt repeatedly banging and scraping against it, the sound of skin slapping against skin, my salacious moans, which I didn't even bother trying to contain, and Christophe's panting, which gave way to more moans and grunts as he neared climax. I could tell he was near when he began pounding into me almost painfully, and I grabbed my dick so that I might bring myself off before he was finished. He surprised me by pushing my hand off, and stroking me instead, pushing me over the edge just before he came inside me. I arched and cried out, pulling at the fabric of his shirt as he shuddered against me.
We laid still for a minute, panting against each other as we recovered, and I licked at his neck appreciatively.
"I don't think I've ever had a simultaneous orgasm with someone," I said, running my hands under his shirt, across his sweaty back.
He grunted against me, his body growing heavier. He shifted and ended up on my bruised ribs, and I gasped and pushed at his shoulder as pain shot through me. He lifted his head and peered sleepily at me.
"You're crushing my ribs," I said, sill clutching his shoulders.
He pulled off me, hitching his trousers up as he did. He watched me warily as he refastened them.
"I didn't say you had to get up," I joked.
"I have to go to work," he said, hesitating. He pulled his shirt, which was stained at the bottom with my come, over his head, handing it to me and letting me clean myself off with it. He watched as I did this, and then walked away, without a word.
I pounded my fist against the table in frustration.