#snowsailor

He waited until Winter had left. The younger man had gone out - not far, simply sent down the block on an errand he hadn’t questioned, because Winter trusted Tyne in the way that you trusted someone who had well-established themselves not to misuse your absence.

And Effie noticed immediately, of course, watching Greg pace back and forth across her living room, glancing periodically out of the window as if watching for her son’s return, his jaw set and his mouth in a tight line.

“You look like you’re about to deliver bad news,” she noted, her eyes never wavering from his face as she folded a dish towel and placed it on the counter before crossing her arms over her chest. “Sit down, before you wear a groove in my floor.”

Tyne sat, as obedient to the wishes of Winnifred Barnes as her own son was.

He placed his hands on his knees. The shaking was bad that day, and his fingertips fluttered irregularly against his pressed - and fur-dusted - trousers. He sat with his spine straight - the posture of a man who had stood before inquiries and commanding officers without flinching - but something in the set of his jaw betrayed his nervousness before a Brooklyn seamstress. The mother of his partner.

Winnifred Barnes watched him with a calm interest, unshaken.

“Well?” she prompted softly.

Greg inhaled.

“I want to be very clear with you,” he began carefully. “I know there is no legal recognition for what I am about to ask you. I understand that what I can offer your son is not a protection in the eyes of the state, and certainly not a safety from judgment. I will not insult you by pretending otherwise.”

Effie’s expression softened - not indulgent, nor pitying, but simply attentive.

“But,” Greg continued, his voice steadying as he gained confidence, “I love him, and I intend to build a life with him. One that is… Deliberate, and lasting, and…” He hesitated, searching for the right word, one that would do his thoughts justice without promising something it couldn’t. “And honorable, in every way that matters.”

He waited, giving her room to speak, and swallowed when she said nothing, pressing on.

“I can’t offer him something that the world will recognize, I know that. But I can offer him constancy. A home. My name, to those who would count it. And my vow - which is not something I give lightly.”

“So I’m asking you,” he finished softly, his eyes on hers unfalteringly, “for your permission. To consider myself bound to your son, if he agrees. As his partner and as his family, for as long as he’ll have me.”

The room lapsed into stillness, into silence, and Effie watched him for a long moment - not as judgement, but in the careful consideration as something being weighed with care.

Finally, she reached for her teacup, and took a sip in silence. Greg gulped.

“You know,” she murmured eventually, not looking away from the dark gaze locked on hers, “when James was little, he used to come home with pockets full of broken things - a watch that didn’t work, a small knife with the blade bent.”

The lieutenant blinked at that, wrong-footed by the sudden shift.

“He’d lay them out on the table,” she continued, “and tell me what they used to be for. What they could be again, if only someone knew how. What they could be again, if he put in the effort.”

She looked at Tyne over the rim of her cup, quiet and considerate.

“You look at my son in the same way he used to look at those things.”

Greg’s throat tightened, jaw twitching once. “He’s not broken,” he replied immediately, and Effie smiled a little.

“No, he isn’t,” she agreed. “But he’s been handled roughly by the world. He came back from that war with pieces he didn’t know how to set down, how to put them back together in a way that makes sense to him.”

Greg nodded, just once. “I know.”

She studied him again - steadiness, restraint, unmistakable love.

“Will you choose him,” she asked softly, “even when he’s the difficult choice?”

“Yes.”

“Even when he goes quiet?”

“Yes.”

“Even when the world reminds you that it won’t make room for love like yours?”

“Especially then,” Greg replied without hesitation.

Effie reached out, placing her hand over his, a smile curving the edge of her mouth. “Then you have my permission, and my blessing. For whatever shape your marriage takes.”

Greg swallowed, head bowing for a moment in gratitude so profound it stole his breath, his fingers trembling lightly beneath hers. “Thank you,” he murmured eventually, his voice thick.

Effie squeezed his hand gently. “I know you’ll take care of him.”

“I will,” the lieutenant agreed firmly. “Every day. On my life.”

When the door opened a few minutes later, Winter stepping in with his coat half unbuttoned, he paused, brow furrowing with concern. “… What is it? What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” his mother replied easily as she got to her feet, but Winter scoffed.

“Then why do both look like you’ve been crying?”

Effie smiled, and paused to kiss his cheek as she passed. “Because your tea’s gone cold, Jamie.”

Winter looked at his partner, one eyebrow raised. “What did I miss?” he mouthed, and Greg met his eyes steadily, his gaze warm.

“Nothing,” he agreed softly, chest aching.

When Greg returned home from the market, Effie and Winter were already in his apartment, and there was a box on the table.

A moving box.

Something inside shifted, and a confused huff radiated from inside.

The lieutenant stopped dead in the doorway, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “… Winter,” he asked softly, carefully, as if considering an unexploded device, “why is this box breathing?”

Effie breezed past with a smile. “You should put your coat away, Gregor.”

The box tipped, as if the entity inside became bored of waiting to be released.

A German Shepherd puppy - white as fresh-fallen snow, all legs and ears and determination - tumbled onto the table, and half-jumped, half-fell onto a chair, then onto the ground, skidding on the linoleum, slammed into Tyne’s boot, and sat down hard, tail wagging so violently it hit the floor with an audible thump-thump-thump.

Winter covered his mouth and tried not to laugh.

The puppy looked up at Greg.

Greg looked down at the puppy.

The lieutenant cleared his throat uncertainly. “… Hello.”

The puppy lunged.

Not aggressively - enthusiastically. Entirely with love, and teeth, and zero spatial awareness or concern for personal boundaries.

Greg yelped - actually yelped - as the puppy’s teeth latched in the hem of his trousers, wrestling the clearly accursed fabric with a heroic commitment.

Winter leaned against the wall, laughing so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks. “I wish I could be sorry,” he gasped, one hand pressed against the pain in his ribs from attempting to catch his breath.

Effie was utterly unrepentant, carefully dismantling the box and placing it flat on the table. “She doesn’t have a name yet.”

Tyne stared down at the puppy - now clamped to his cuff, tail wagging so hard it looked as though it might detach. “Puppy,” he ordered weakly. “Release me.”

The puppy simply growled, head shaking as she fought to separate the fabric from his leg.

Greg tried again, a little more firmly. “Dog. No.”

She froze, and the lieutenant straightened slightly, looking proud of himself.

Then the puppy sneezed on his boot, and resumed chewing.

Winter let out a sob of laughter. “She’s immune!”

“I have commanded men under fire,” Greg declared weakly. “This is an unacceptable response.”

“She’s just a baby,” Effie soothed, petting the lieutenant’s arm.

“Yes,” Greg replied flatly. “A lawless one.”

Greg attempted discipline.

He read all the pamphlets. He stood straight, and gave calm, measured commands. Every inch the lieutenant that Winter had fallen for.

The puppy responded by sitting perfectly for a moment, before sprinting off in the opposite direction, dragging Greg’s boot with her.

Tyne gave chase - and returned five minutes later with hair disheveled, his dignity in ruins, and the puppy triumphantly dragging half a shoelace.

Winter almost forgets how to breathe.

“I don’t understand,” Tyne muttered, once the dog had fallen asleep on her back, paws twitching contentedly. “I was very clear!”

The younger man grinned. “You’re trying to reason with a creature whose thoughts don’t currently extend beyond ‘chew’ and ‘glee’.” Winter looked down at her, and smiled softly. “She needs a name…”

“Ananiel,” Greg replied immediately, quietly. “Ana.”

Winter’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled. “You’ve been thinking about it.”

Greg shrugged, eyes flicking away for a beat. “It seemed… Inefficient, for her not to have one. And given that she’s apparently ours, it seemed fitting we name her after where we… Established.”

“You can say ‘fell in love’, you know,” Winter teased, leaning into his partner’s side. “The words won’t bite.”

The lieutenant shot him a fond smile, lips brushing the younger man’s forehead. “I don’t know,” he mused playfully. “I think Reykjavik will always be where I started to realize that I was falling for you. But that seems like a lot to ask most people to spell.”

Winter snorted, and the puppy - Ana - huffed herself awake, sensing the attention being paid to her, and scaled her way into Greg’s lap.

Greg stiffened. “Win-”

Ana licked his chin, and he froze entirely. “… She’s breached the perimeter,” he whispered, eyes wide.

Winter was cackling openly, tears rolling down his cheeks. “You’re her favorite.”

Greg looked down at the creature; soft, warm, trusting - and entirely unbothered by tone or rank or reputation. “I see,” he replied slowly.

Ana let out a soft sigh, curled up, and fell asleep once more.

Greg didn’t move for twenty minutes - when the puppy had decided it was time to explore again, taking Greg’s other boot with her.

It was late in the night when Winter woke to find Greg’s spot cool beside him.

With a small, worried frown, he rose, padding quietly through the apartment. It wouldn’t be the first time that the memories had driven the lieutenant from their bed, and Winter often found him by the window, gazing sightlessly out over the water as the ghosts circled around him.

But this time, he didn’t find his partner stood before the glass, vacant eyes on the docks.

Tyne was sat on the floor, back to the sofa, his legs extended before him and Ana lay in his arms, belly up, one ear flopped over as she snored softly.

The lieutenant was holding her like a bomb technician who was told to cut the red wire in a monochrome world. His eyes were guarded as he looked up to Winter. “She cried.”

Winter smiled, just a little. “You stayed.”

“She stopped when I sat here,” Greg offered weakly, then looked down at the puppy once more, appearing bewildered but tender.

Winter’s smile grew, and he sunk down beside the pair, resting on Tyne’s shoulder. “You’ve been chosen.”

“Apparently,” Greg sighed, but his eyes danced with quiet, resigned delight as Ana snored louder.

They eventually retired to bed, Ana still snoring as she was placed gently in a makeshift basket made of a cardboard box turned sideways and lined with an old shirt.

Greg awoke to a weight on his chest and the dawn light obscuring his vision as he cracked an eye.

There was a German Shepherd puppy standing square on his sternum, tail wagging so ferociously that it blurred, a black, wet nose only inches form his own.

“… Ana,” Greg croaked, voice rough with sleep.  “This is not appropriate behavior.”

Ana responded by dragging her tongue happily over his eyebrow, and Greg flinched. “Winter.”

The younger man, face still mashed into the pillow, let out a sleepy grunt. “Mm?”

“The dog has mounted a surprise offensive.”

Winter tipped his head slightly, squinting his eyes open, and took in the scene before him before laughing. “She likes you!”

“I am being targeted,” Greg replied, his voice grave.

Ana sneezed, and sat on the lieutenant’s chest. Winter grinned, reaching over to scratch behind the puppy’s ears, chuckling when she flopped onto her side and drove the air from Tyne’s lungs. “Nah,” Winter disagreed lightly. “You’re being furniture.”

Greg stared sightlessly at the ceiling. “I have been reduced.”

Greg insisted on beginning to walk Ana at the same time every morning.

“We should establish structure,” he observed, clipping on the leash with military precision.

He’s been reading the books, Winter noted with glee.

“You sure?” he checked, eyes alight.

“Yes,” the lieutenant replied steadily, eyeing the puppy. “She’s still young. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He pushed open the door of the apartment building and stepped outside. Winter, who had been solely responsible for Ana’s bathroom breaks so far, already knew what was coming, and leaned against the doorframe with his knuckle between his teeth.

They made it approximately four steps before Ana saw a pigeon - and lunged.

Greg, entirely unprepared for the raw, joyous force, stumbled forward for half a pace before regaining his balance, clearing his throat in some attempt at dignity. “Heel.”

Ana paused, and Greg straightened with a triumphant smile - until she sat and began chewing on her lead eagerly.

Winter sank to the step, cackling, as a neighbor passed by - eyeing the man he likely knew to be a distinguished Navy lieutenant, with his immaculate coat and dignified posture… And a puppy fighting with the leash like a captured enemy.

“Cute dog,” the neighbor noted, trying not to grin.

Greg looked down, his eyes narrowing, the fondness evident as he nodded stiffly. “She is… A challenge.”

Ana let out a happy yap at Greg’s gaze on her, and shifted to fighting with the laces of his boots.

That night, Greg was reviewing the latest papers, checking for any notes of resistance. Things had been settling down since the war officially ended, but he still worried, keeping an eye out for any familiar names in the obituaries or headlines that may give him cause for concern. Papers aligned, glasses perched - and Ana sitting at his feet, staring intently.

Greg ignored her, and she reached up to place a paw on his knee.

The lieutenant stiffened.

“… Winter,” he murmured, and the younger man looked up from his book on the sofa, face splitting into a wide grin.

“Yes?”

“She… Wants something.”

Ana tilted her head, ears flopping adorably, and Greg sighed, reaching down - and starting in surprise when she immediately climbed into his lap.

Winter’s grin softened into a fond smile, and the lieutenant froze, hands hovering uncertainly. “I… Don’t know what to do with her.”

“Just hold her,” Winter replied gently, his eyes crinkling at the edges when Greg did so and Ana sighed deeply, melting against the lieutenant’s chest happily.

Tyne’s eyes lowered, resting on the puppy for a few moments before raising to Winter once more.

“… I would go to war for this animal.”

Winter snorted, shaking his head fondly as Ana let out a soft snore. “I know.”

Effie watched it all unfold with satisfaction.

The first time she came to visit them and found Greg with the puppy asleep in his arms, she leaned against the door frame with a smile. “You know, Gregor, dogs have a way of knowing who needs them,” she noted mildly.

His fingers trailed absently down Ana’s back, and he replied without thinking. “Yes. She seems to think I am emotionally compromised.”

“She’s very smart,” Effie agreed, smiling.

Winter watched the trio - his mother, his partner, his ridiculous puppy - and felt contented bliss settle into his chest.

Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but it was home.

Greg insisted that Ana would learn to sleep in her own bed instead of falling asleep cradled in someone’s arms.

“We cannot encourage reliance,” Greg explained, placing Ana’s basket with clinical precision beside the sofa. “She must learn independence.”

Ana looked at the basket, then at Greg, sitting heavily with a small peep of confusion, and Winter bit his lip. “Greg…”

“No,” the lieutenant replied firmly. “We will hold firm.”

They did not hold firm.

It was a little after three in the morning when a sound echoed through the apartment. Not crying, not barking - just a soft, miserable huff, and Tyne opened his eyes.

The darkness of the room was deceptively still, Winter asleep beside him, breathing slow and even, and Greg lay motionless, staring at the ceiling.

Another huff, and the lieutenant closed his eyes resolutely.

When a third came, Greg exhaled slowly, already aware that he had lost, and slipped out of bed. Padding quietly into the living room he knelt beside the basket.

Ana was awake, her ears drooped, entire body radiating betrayal, and Greg’s chest tightened. “Oh. I see.”

The puppy shifted closer, her nose flush to the edge of the basket, eyes enormous and sorrowful.

Tyne hesitated for exactly half a second before scooping her up against his chest.

Ana relaxed immediately, her tail giving a single, sleepy wag before she burrowed under Greg’s chin, and he paused, the edge of his lips twitching. “This was not part of the plan,” he whispered gently.

Ana simply snored in response.

The lieutenant closed his eyes, forehead resting against the puppy’s. “I understand,” he murmured. “I know what it is to not want to be alone.”

She let out a soft huff, nestling closer, and Greg laughed under his breath - a quiet, helpless, devoted sound.

When Winter woke later, he found them both asleep on the couch, with Greg curled protectively around her small body, arm draped over her like a shield.

He simply smiled to himself and gently pulled a blanket over his little family, his heart aching with love.

Yeah. This is it. This is… Everything.

Greg acknowledged it almost absently, as he leaned down one afternoon from his papers, scratching behind the ear of the puppy asleep with her head on his foot. Her tail thumped once, and the lieutenant glanced up to his partner. “Winter?”

“Yes?” the younger man asked as he passed by, empty tea mug in hand.

“I believe,” Greg replied carefully, “that this creature has compromised me.”

Winter grinned and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “She and I both,” he chuckled adoringly.

Ana let out a soft bark in her sleep, one leg kicking out violently.

And Lieutenant Gregor Tyne - decorated officer, composed partner, utterly defeated dog guardian - laughed.

The docks looked smaller than Winter remembered. The faces were new, no sense of familiarity as he scanned features for those few who had still lingered when he left, hoping to wait out the war - no doubt pulled to service by the draft, robbed of the choice that Greg had highlighted so starkly for the deckhand.

It felt unreal, moving through streets he'd known his entire life with the lieutenant by his side, following the same route he had the day they met, when dark eyes haunted his thoughts and occupied his every step. The same eyes that now watched him with open adoration, walking close beside him. Their pace was slower than the Navy life had enstilled in him, and every now and then Winter found himself moving a little too quickly, Tyne's features strained at the edges as he kept up, until Winter winced, murmuring an apology as he slowed.

"You know you can speak up, right?" Winter prompted softly. "I'm trying, it just slips my mind occasionally - but you're allowed to say something."

Greg shot him a look, his jaw tight. "I can keep up."

"I wasn't saying you can't," Winter replied evenly, stepping half an inch closer, letting his arm brush Tyne's reassuringly. "But we're allowed to exist without pushing ourselves here, Gregor. We can take a few extra minutes to walk down the street. There's no battles, no deadlines, no lives hanging in the balance. It's just us."

Greg's gaze softened, and he nodded once, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing as his pace slowed minutely, earning a grin and a brief squeeze to his hand from the younger man. “Thank you,” he murmured under his breath. The words came strained with having to acknowledge his own limitations, but Winter simply smiled, gently bumping his shoulder against Tyne’s in silent support.

The normality of it all was startling. It was easy to believe that he’d hardly been gone - the same buildings leaned around him, families spoke on front steps as they watched their children play, just as they always had. The sound of a woman gently scolding her child came so achingly, unusually ordinary that his footsteps faltered for a beat.

His movements were instinctive as long legs strode up familiar steps, gaining a few feet on Tyne before Winter remembered himself and stopped, offering his arm. With a grip that was more for comfort than stability, more because he could than because he needed to, Greg took it, fingers curling around the younger man’s forearm lightly.

The apartment door was the same color, though it had begun to peel in places, the yellow paint that his mother had declared ‘cheerful’ and applied passionately after his father left still standing out despite its age.

Winter stopped in front of it, his breaths coming shallow as his hand raised, and hesitated.

Careful. Restrained.

She had a towel in her hands when she answered the door, her hair half-undone from the bun she’d neatly pinned the morning before, not yet up and presentable enough that she would face the world if the world had not yet come calling. She looked much the same, in a way that made Winter’s breath catch in surprise - though the creases around her eyes were new, telling of time spent worrying and pouring over detail of the war effort that she could find.

There was no sound as her lips parted, the movement of her hands stilling mid-dry, the motion forgotten.

Winter swallowed. “Hi, Ma.”

For a heartbeat longer, she could only stare. Her eyes catalogued his features with ruthless precision - angles checked against memory, scars noted, gaze studied - as if determining that she was not the victim of some cruel deception.

Then the towel fell from her hands, lying forgotten on the floor as she crossed the threshold to pull Winter into her arms with a strength that surprised them both. He made a startled, choked sound, holding her just as tightly, his taller frame folding around her instinctively, his cheek pressed to hair as the aroma of her perfume overwhelmed his senses, threatening to pull tears from eyes squeezed tight.

“Oh,” Winnie breathed, drawing back, cupping his face in her palms and studying him fiercely. “Oh, James. When I saw- but never mind. You’re here.”

“I am.”

She kissed his cheek, then his temple, before her hands found his arms, holding him tightly. "I'd swear you've gone and grown," she laughed, shaking her head. It was then that her gaze slid past her son, finding the lieutenant hovering uncertainly behind him.

But Winnifred Barnes was not one to ask questions at the door. She simply stepped back to let them both enter, as if the matter had already been settled within her. "You should sit," she noted over her shoulder, turning toward the kitchen. "I was just making tea."

Winter blinked in surprise at the complete acceptance of his mother - not that he had expected rejection, but the simple ease with which she invited the other man into her home whilst knowing little about him still took Winter by surprise. Tyne hesitated for a heartbeat in the doorway, before clearing his throat.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied, before wincing subtly. But Winnie only glanced over her shoulder, offering the pair a smile.

"Oh, I like you already."

They sat around the small kitchen table - the very same one he had last sat at the night before he left for Newport, he and his mother considering each other across fabric and a sense of pre-emptive loss.

But now there was only a fierce pulse of some unrecognisable kind of joy resonating in Winter's chest as he looked between the two people he loved most in the world. His mother sat comfortably, unphased by the stranger in her home as she poured tea and added a lump of sugar to her own, completing the simple ritual before looking up at Tyne. Greg, however, was perched uncertainly, stiff-backed and nervous, seemingly paralysed with fear that he would break something simply by existing.

Winnifred Barnes was well-accustomed to watching people. She watched with the quiet intensity of someone who was used to letting those around her exist without unwanted interruption - to simply be, without demand for performance or mask.

"You're the Lieutenant, aren't you?" she asked eventually, her hands wrapping around her mug, shooting Winter a look when he dropped the spoon into his drink with a clatter. "Mind the china."

"Yes, Ma'am," Greg replied steadily. Winter saw his muscles tense infinitesimally, and grinned, knowing he was resisting the instinct to salute. "First Lieutenant Gregor Tyne of the USS Ananiel. Formerly," he added after a beat, his wince almost imperceptible.

Almost.

Winnie nodded, glancing briefly at her son. "Yes. You were injured in the line of duty, I believe?"

Winter stared. "How do you-"

"You spoke of Lieutenant Tyne often in your letters," she interrupted with a small smile, waving a hand. "Who else is likely to turn up on my doorstep with you?" She turned her attention back to the other man - an action that Winter found himself both adoring and grateful for. Part of him was dreading when the moment would come when she would ask about the sinking of the Annie; it wasn't something he was ready to revisit. Not yet, and certainly not for the first time with his mother, who would undoubtedly be horrified if she could see quite how much the experience had affected him.

He could still see the bodies in the water each time he closed his eyes. More than he could count. Some he could name. Faces he could recognise, and some that were maimed beyond comprehension by the shrapnel that had torn through the ship, by falling cargo, by impact. Blood and bodies everywhere.

"You were his officer."

It wasn't a question, but Tyne nodded anyway, half-reaching for his mug before curling his trembling fingers into a first self-consciously. "Yes, Ma'am. Your son is a fine seaman. You should be very proud."

"I am," she replied immediately, her fingers reaching out instinctively to rub the hair at the nape of Winter's neck affectionately - a gesture she'd always used to silently reinforce her love, ever since he could remember.

The feeling of it almost brought tears to his eyes, and he took a long sip of his drink to ground himself.

“Where are you staying, Lieutenant?”

“Over on Kent, by the docks,” Tyne replied readily, and she nodded, smiling softly.

“That explains it,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “Figured as much that you weren’t in the neighborhood. Everyone knows where everyone lives around here.”

It was then that Winnie turned her attention to her son once more, her hand leaving his neck to rest before her as she considered him. "You're... Different."

Instinctively, Winter felt his muscles clench. “Different how?”

“Lighter,” she replied immediately. “Not in every way, but- still you, just… Steadier.”

Winter found himself glancing at Tyne before he could stop himself, saw his mother follow the look with the barest hint of a smile, half-covered by her mug.

“Well,” she noted briskly, “any man who brings my son home in one piece is welcome at my table. I’ll fix us some breakfast.”

Greg’s throat worked visibly. “Thank you.”

She waved off the gratitude, getting to her feet. “You both need to eat something. You look like you’ve forgotten how.”

Later, when the light had shifted and they had spent several hours in his mother’s company, catching up on the neighborhood news - which came in both the same tone as it had pre-war, with theorising about potential relationships and who was thought to be having a fifth child (“Five! Can you believe it? How does she ever get anything else done?”), and in a markedly different one (“Margaret got a telegram last week. Gone since January, her George. That’s both of them now.”) - Winter and his lieutenant bid their goodbyes, with the former promising to come back tomorrow; he promised to come back every day, at least until he knew what came next for him.

Winnie had hugged him once more on the doorstep, holding to him tight as she murmured in his ear. “He seems a good man. You’ve done well.”

The words followed him, buoyed him down the street as they made their gradual way to Tyne’s apartment. Greg was flagging slightly, unused to having so much interaction in his day - but Winter kept pace diligently, always making sure he was moving at a comfortable speed for the lieutenant.

“What did she say?” he asked eventually, breaking the comfortable silence.

Winter blinked, glancing at him. “Huh?”

Greg offered him a small smile, head inclining. “I saw her mutter something to you as we left. What did she say? Not that you have to tell me, if you’d rather not,” he added quickly. There was a subtle note of anxiety under the words - a fear of rejection that made Winter’s chest ache painfully.

“She told me you seem like a good man,” Winter replied softly, reaching out to squeeze his lieutenant’s forearm. “That I’ve done well.”

His jaw worked, and he ducked his head, fighting to keep the smile from his face as he strode determinedly on. “That means a lot,” he answered, his voice quiet. “She’d know a good man when she saw one, having raised the best of them.”

The rest of the day passed in comfort and quiet. Winter curled around Greg when they had returned, having gently ushered his lieutenant to bed - partly because of the exhaustion evident in the way he carried himself, but partly because Winter had missed laying beside him, holding Tyne in his arms as the older man drifted off to sleep.

Winter lay awake, watching over his partner with a fierce adoration, tracing the features of his face softened in sleep. Fingers curled into the younger man’s shirt, holding him close, and Winter’s fingers caressed Greg’s spine lightly as he dozed. The lieutenant seemed comforted by the motion, his breath coming light and steady, and Winter couldn’t help the swell of adoration in his chest.

I’ve got you.

The idea of leaving again had become a dark cloud hovering at the edge of the petty officer’s consciousness, ever-present and haunting. He was beginning, in the faintest of ways, to understand what his life could be like after the Navy - and every part of him ached to stay. He wouldn’t shirk his duty, not if it came calling; just because the Navy hadn’t always treated him fairly didn’t mean he was about to go AWOL. But he knew if he was to leave again, it would be with his heart in Brooklyn, counting down the days until he could return, his service an act of obedience rather than one of pleasure.

The idea that he might not come back was one he could not let creep in.

He looked down at the man in his arms, his lips slightly parted, breath washing over the skin at Winter’s throat, and knew that his military career was over. Whether now or in a year, he knew that he would not - could not - re-enlist. He had found himself in the Navy; Greg had been right about that. But he had also found a reason to be himself, to stand tall and defiant against a world often determined to break him, against a system that punished those who were different.

The Navy would always be a part of him - but the lieutenant was his future.

Greg woke slowly, wrapped around Winter, letting out a soft sigh as he curled closer into the younger man’s side.

I don’t want him to leave.

The realization came to the lieutenant quietly, with his face pressed into the curve of the younger man’s throat. He wouldn’t ask him to stay - knew he couldn’t, even if he wanted to, not if the Navy wanted him back - but he found himself hoping that Winter would be discharged.

“Win?”

“Hm?”

Greg paused, uncharacteristically nervous as he glanced up, considering his partner quietly for a moment. “… Do you want to go back? I know you don’t have a choice,” he added quickly, grimacing. “I just meant… If you did. I’d understand if you did, of course - we both know I’d never have left, not of my own volition - but I-”

Winter silenced him with a gentle kiss, his fingers cupping his jaw. “If I had the choice, I wouldn’t be going anywhere.” His hand shifted, carding through hair that had gotten longer than regulation - just another sign that Greg’s naval career was over. “I wish I could stay; I wish it was at all in my control.” With a soft sigh, he pressed his forehead to Tyne’s. “I know I can’t make promises. That I’m not able to swear to you that if I have to leave, I’ll be able to come back. And I wouldn’t expect you to wait for me - not with that uncertainty, that fear, that-”

It was Greg’s turn to press himself closer, mouth finding the younger man’s in a bid to silence him - not forceful, but simply full of love and loyalty.

“I’d wait forever and a day,” the lieutenant replied simply, fingers entwining tighter in Winter’s shirt.

Greg made tea while Winter took Ana to the sidewalk. They would drink in the quiet together, usually looking out over the sea. Late in the year, they often saw the sun rise, the water turning from lavender and lilac to burning oranges, before passing to the golden glow of the sunrise proper, setting the ocean alight — just as Greg had once described.

It was their routine, as predictable one day as the day before. While the content of their days changed somewhat, the morning stayed the same — even as they rose on Christmas day.

On that day, there was one difference. As Winter returned from taking Ana to the street, shaking snow from his hair, he found Greg sat by the window already, waiting. A small bag sat on the table before him, and the younger man paused partway through removing the shepherd’s leash, eyes shining.

“What’s that?” he asked, grinning, straightening at last, and his partner smiled.

“You know, gifts are traditional at Christmas,” Greg replied evenly, earning a laugh and a fond roll of the eyes from Winter.

“Traditional, perhaps… But unnecessary. I already have everything I want,” Winter replied simply, crossing the room to brush his lips against Tyne’s.

“Oh?” Greg clarified innocently, one eyebrow raising as his hand reached towards the bag. “Perhaps I’ll take it back, th—”

“Don’t you dare,” Winter laughed, dropping into his lieutenant’s lap and hooking a finger through the handle. “Mine.”

Greg chuckled and inclined his head, indicating for his partner to continue. With a soft sound of glee, Winter reached into the bag, pulling out a thin silver chain with wide eyes.

“Greg… I… It’s—”

“I thought it would pair well with this,” Greg interrupted softly, pulling a small box from his pocket. His hands shook as he opened it — though whether from nerves or his injury, Winter couldn’t tell.

The band was simple, silver, and exquisite. Perfectly understated, elegant and graceful.

Greg’s fingers came up to cup his partner’s cheek gently. “I know there are times that wearing a symbol of our love may not feel like the safest thing. So… I wanted you to have a way to know I’m always there, even when society means we must keep our heads down.”

The younger man’s eyes stung as the slender chain was passed over his head carefully, his forehead meeting Tyne’s as he offered his hand.

“A perfect fit,” Greg murmured as he slid the ring into place, rubbing his thumb over the shining metal tenderly.

“Anyone would think you’d been planning this,” Winter replied with trembling chuckle, earning a grin from his partner, and a pass of his lieutenant’s lips along his cheek.

“Anyone would think.”

It was decided without discussion; Effie had simply informed the boys that dinner would be at four.

They arrived at one, and Winifred was almost speechless when Tyne presented her with extra sugar rations, leveraged through his connections. He’d already stopped by a few days before with a ham from the Dockyard’s Commissary, earning a tight hug from his mother, who had informed him that it would be significantly better than the mock turkey recipe she had intended to use.

Winter had stared at him, one eyebrow raised, wondering how the hell his lieutenant - honorably discharged, but discharged nonetheless - had managed it, and earned only a wink in response.

Even now, it’s strange sometimes, Winter mused absently as they settled at the kitchen table to keep Winnifred company as she cooked. His eyes drifted to his partner, deep in thought. His lieutenant looked more relaxed these days — easier to smile, with less tension in his shoulders. But still, on occasion, Winter found himself surprised when he looked at his partner. How odd it still felt, sometimes, to see Greg without his uniform. Without the rank and chain of command dividing them.

His hand reached out to entwine his fingers with Tyne’s instinctively, and the older man paused in his laughter with Effie and glanced at Winter.

“You okay?” he clarified softly, gaze gentle, and the younger man nodded with a smile.

“I’m wonderful,” he replied simply.

While Greg helped Effie in the kitchen, Winter took Ana out to relieve herself.

He wandered over towards the docks — the place where it all began a lifetime ago. Retracing streets he’d walked while lost in thoughts of mahogany eyes, contemplating his future and his fate.

“This is where we met,” Winter informed Ana quietly, leaning against the entrance to the docks. “He knew what I was to be before I did, of course. He saw me far more clearly than I ever saw myself, even then.”

Ana let out a quiet huff, seemingly unimpressed with her human’s story, and strained to sniff at the dock just ahead of her, undoubtedly enticed by the scent of countless boots, sea salt and fish.

With a soft chuckle, Winter looked around, hesitating. The dock was quieter on Christmas — but still not silent, and he doubted anyone would thank him for letting his overeager puppy explore.

“… Okay, fine. Five minutes.”

When Winter returned thirty minutes later, he was quiet.

Greg cast him a worried glance, rubbing his fingers over their dog’s chilled ears, but the younger man didn’t look up, brow furrowed a little as he gazed sightlessly at the table before him.

“Jamie, you’re ruminating,” Effie informed him, placing a cup of tea in her son’s eyeline.

He looked up with a soft hum, expression clearing. “Huh? Oh. Sorry.”

She shook her head with a small smile, running her fingers gently through his hair. His mother knew, hard-learned through years of experience, that if something was troubling her son, he would undoubtedly bring it up when he was ready.

But Tyne had no such experience, and he leaned forward, his own expression tight with concern. “What’s going on, Win?” Winter went to wave away the question, but Greg shook his head a little. “You’ve been quiet since you got back… Did something happen?”

The younger man pursed his lips, considering his tea thoughtfully. “I… Bumped into someone I used to see around the docks sometimes,” he replied slowly. When Greg only waited for him to continue, he shrugged a little. “Nothing happened, as such. We just… Caught up a little. I actually said that I — or, rather, that we — would meet up with him for a little while this evening.”

“It’s Christmas,” Effie pointed out unnecessarily, and Winter snorted.

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed,” he deadpanned, earning an affectionate swat with the tea towel. He chuckled, brushing it away, and then paused. “No, I know. But he sails out again in the morning.”

“Sails out?” Greg prompted quietly, his head cocked.

Winter nodded once. “Yeah — it’s how we met. He shows up every month or so at the docks. He’s a nice guy; I think you’ll like him.”

The younger man didn’t say more — not then. Instead, he simply turned to his mother, and began to make small talk about how good dinner smelled.

The meal went down amidst laughter, conversation and groans of delight.

When Winter declared it the best thing he’d eaten in years, his mother blushed, placing her hand on the lieutenant’s arm gently. “Well, it wouldn’t have been so special if it wasn’t for Gregor. I doubt many people are having such a beautiful ham with their meal.”

Greg grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was nothing, really…”

She shook her head, squeezing his forearm. “It was a Christmas miracle!”

He laughed a little at that, shaking his head, and turned his gaze to his partner. "So what's the plan, with meeting this... Friend, of yours?"

Winter arched an eyebrow, biting back a grin. "You sound suspicious."

"You've being secretive. It's concerning."

With a soft laugh, the younger man shook his head. "Not secretive. Cautious. And you realize Christmas presents are supposed to be a surprise, right?"

Greg's brows rose. "What does he have to do with my Christmas present?"

Winter simply grinned, shaking his head. "Nope,” he replied. “You can wait and see. I’m not saying anything.”

Effie looked between her son and his partner with a small, fond smile. She knew that there was no point pressing her son once his mind was made up; Greg would find out what Winter had planned exactly when the younger man decided, and not a moment before.

With a soft chuckle, she got to her feet. “How about another cup of tea before you both disappear into the cold again?”

The snow was falling softly once more by the time the men ventured out into the gathering dusk, full of food and warmed through by the cup of tea that turned into two, then three. The pup between them was unfazed by the chill, her white coat fluffed up as she trotted along eagerly.

“So… Where are we meeting your friend?” Tyne asked, smiling a little as he tipped his head.

“At our place?” Winter replied sheepishly, earning a laugh and a fond eye roll.

“I see,” Greg answered with a grin, lips twitching — but then he paused, brow furrowing a little in concern. “Is he… Aware? Of our relationship?”

“Not as yet — there were a few too many people around,” the younger man admitted. “But I have no doubt that he will be more than accepting. I’ve known him for a few years.; he’s of the… Open-minded type.”

Greg arched an eyebrow, but nodded once, his fingers entwining with his partner’s. “Okay,” he replied simply.

Ana got to her feet with her boys when there was a soft knock at the door, earning a grin from both men.

“Sorry about the welcome committee, George,” Winter chuckled as he ushered an older man inside. Greg examined the newcomer in his usual way, eyes passing over form and features with military precision, analyzing a weather-worn face from a life at sea and the ingrained scent of salt spray. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite, either.”

The seafarer laughed — an open, joyous sound — and shook his head. “I'm mair feart o' the dug than the lad,” he chuckled, eyeing Ana with a hint of nervousness, strong Scottish edged by uncertainty. “I like them fine, but I've never been able tae understand what it is they want frae me."

“Your boots, in all likeliness,” Greg replied, meeting George’s gaze evenly for a moment before cracking a small smile and extending a hand. “Gregor Tyne. L— it’s… Good to meet you.”

Winter caught the small wince as his partner cut himself off, and leaned in a little. “Lieutenant Gregor Tyne, formerly of the USS Ananiel, United States Navy. My lieutenant, back in the day. Now… Simply my partner. My fiancé,” Winter amended with a soft smile.

Greg’s gaze shifted instinctively to George’s face, surprised to find no hint of a reaction, the older man only nodding once. “It's a pleasure tae meet you, Lieutenant,” he responded, shaking Tyne’s hand firmly. “I'm glad tae hear that Bucky found someone in the end. Always worried aboot the lad — worked ower much, kept tae himself. Shouldn't hae been like that, no' at his age. Shouldae been oot makin' mischief. ” He grinned as he glanced back at Winter, eyes bright. “Kept tryin' tae convince him o' takin' a job on the boat, but he wasnae haein' ony o' it. Just kept treadin' those docks."

“Turns out I was exactly where I was meant to be,” Winter noted, glancing at his partner with a small smile. George grinned again, clapping him on the back.

"What's a' this I hear aboot a potential new recruit, anyway? You finally decided tae gie SDI a chance?" he asked, eyes dancing, though his smile faded a little when Winter laughed and shook his head.

“Not me. I’ve had enough of the ocean for one lifetime, I think. Maybe for short, recreational stints on occasion… But that life isn’t for me, not anymore.” Winter paused, glancing at his partner with a soft smile. “But I thought Gregor might be interested.”

Greg blinked in surprise, looking between the two men. “… What’s SDI?” he asked at length, and Winter grinned.

“I’ll make some tea. You two talk.”

"... So that's it, really. Efter I got oot o' the Army, I wanted tae make a difference in a mair positive way. It's bad pay and a dangerous life, but what we dae matters. And your service, your injuries, your fiancé... None o' it will stand oot there. We're a' waifs and strays and damaged in our ain ways."

Greg watched him quietly, his fingers trembling softly around the long-emptied mug in his hands. “How long?” he asked, his voice low as he glanced at his partner. “How long would we… Be away for?”

"It can vary,” George replied honestly. “Sometimes it's a wee while, sometimes it's a few months. Rarely mair than six."

Winter nodded once, already familiar with the ship’s changeable schedule, and squeezed his fiancé’s wrist gently. “If you want to go, you can go,” he assured the older man softly. “I’ll be here waiting for you when you come back.”

"Some folk on’y join us for one or two expeditions a year,” George added with a sympathetic smile. “You're no' required tae sign on for a' o' them.”

Greg paused again, his gaze finding the younger man’s quietly. “I…” He swallowed dryly, gathering himself before continued. “You’d do that? You’d put yourself through that — the waiting… Just so I could be on the sea again?”

“I know who you are, Gregor,” Winter replied softly, pressing his forehead to his partner’s. “I know the man — the sailor — I fell in love with. If I can give you back the ocean… Well, I think that might win the Christmas present contest this year, at least.”

Greg laughed shakily, his mouth claiming his officer’s for a brief moment before he turned to George, nodding once.

“I’m in.”

It wasn’t until they were lay in bed together that night, the evening passing in a few drinks and the sharing of their more light-hearted war stories until George bid them goodnight, that Greg’s fingers found Winter’s and squeezed gently.

“I can’t believe I’m going back,” he murmured into the darkness. The younger man smiled, curling against his lieutenant’s chest and wrapping his fingers in his shirt.

“Nervous?” Winter asked softly. Tyne hesitated for a moment before nodding.

“It’s impossible not to be, after what happened last time I was at sea,” Greg acknowledged. His free hand found Ana’s head where it rested on his thigh, absently rubbing her ears and earning a soft thump of her tail in response. “But… You’re right. It’s who I am. Staring at it through a window… It isn’t the same.”

“And the job?” Winter asked, resting his chin on his partner’s chest to gaze up at him. “You don’t mind it?”

Greg’s lips curled a little, and he brushed a kiss over the younger man’s forehead. “I don’t mind it,” he replied honestly. “In fact… I think I quite like the idea. Helping out, saving lives… I’ve spent enough time in the company of death, I think. I’ve killed, I’ve watched people I care about — and people I commanded — die… I think I’m ready to spend some time giving instead of taking.”

Winter smiled, brushing his thumb over his partner’s cheek gently. “I’m glad.”

“And you?” Greg prompted, gazing down at him. “Are you really okay with the thought that I might be gone for months at a time?”

Winter paused, his eyes lowering for a beat. “I won’t lie and say I relish the idea,” he admitted quietly. “I’ll miss you — of course I will. But we survived almost a year apart. We can do a few months.” The younger man smiled, pressing a kiss to Greg’s chest. “And the difference is… This time, if we ever decide it’s too much, we can just… Stop. We’re not bound to it. If a time comes when the thought of leaving me is harder than the thought of not returning to the sea… Then you can choose to stay.”

Greg nodded, jaw tight with emotion, and held his fiancé tighter. “I’ll miss you too,” he replied simply.

Winter made tea when he was uncertain. It was a habit he had picked up from his mother, who had picked it up from her own mother in turn.

And later, when they were home, and Greg had been quieter than usual for most of the evening, Winter made tea.

When he returned to their living room, Ana at his feet - seemingly trying her hardest to make him fall over her - and tea in each hand, he found Tyne stood at the window, his back to the room as he gazed out over the water.

“… Hey, pretty boy… You okay?” Winter murmured after a moment, pausing to place the mugs on their low coffee table before stepping up beside his parter. He recognized this stance - Greg’s hands folded behind his back, his shoulders squared. It was a formal, braced position; it was the way he stood when he had something on his mind.

His hand passed gently around his partner’s waist to rest on his hip as he stood beside him, pressing a gentle kiss to the lieutenant’s shoulder. Nothing else was said; he simply watched the side of Tyne’s face quietly, eyes tracing the hard line of his jaw, the subtle shift of light reflected on water that moved over his skin.

“I always liked this view,” Greg noted softly, eventually, his gaze not shifting away from the ocean. “I believe I said to you, that day you came back to me… That when sky is clear and the water is on fire, it's almost like being back on the sea.”

At last, he lowered his mahogany eyes to his partner’s, finding a blue so similar, so similarly familiar, that it made his chest ache. “I miss the ocean.”

Winter winced subtly, sympathetically. “I know.”

Greg’s hand rose, cupping his partner’s jaw gently. “But you… You make me feel the way I do when I’m out there. Like the world is wide enough.”

The younger man only smiled, tipping his face into the touch. “I hope you get back out there some day. Whatever that looks like.”

“And I love you for it,” Greg replied evenly, brushing his lips against Winter’s forehead softly. “I love that you don’t let the things that you’ve seen, the things we have endured, keep me contained.”

“It scares me,” Winter admitted quietly. “The thought of you on the ocean again. The idea that something similar could happen, or worse.” He hesitated for a moment, his thumb rubbing his lieutenant’s hip idly. “But if I tried to keep you from the sea - worse, if I succeeded… You would not be the man I fell in love with.”

“Do you remember Reykjavík?” Greg asked softly. Winter blinked, surprised, and raised his head from where it had drifted to the other man’s shoulder to meet his gaze.

“Of course. Every second.”

Tyne nodded, his eyes drifting back to the ocean. “I think… Despite everything, the moment I remember the most was as I fell asleep.”

Winter thought back to wind against glass, to the scent of steam-warm wood, to the sanctity offered by a nondescript room. To the feeling of the other man’s body against his for the first time. It felt almost like a lifetime ago, with everything that had happened in between. Love, loss, farewells and returns - and through it all, one another.

He didn’t say anything; he simply watched, letting his lieutenant take his time to find the words. Remembering what he had said on that day - “I’m not always good with words. Orders – that’s clear. Unequivocal. A task set. It’s… Easy. But this? … I don’t know the words for these things.”

“As I fought sleep, not wanting our night to end… Not wanting to return to the world we lived in, you held me close, and you whispered something. Do you remember?”

A flash of surprise passed through the younger man, and he shook his head. “I… No.”

Greg looked down at his partner, his gaze gentle. “‘I’ve got you.’ That’s what you said to me, as you held me - your superior officer. Another man. ‘I’ve got you.’” Tyne smiled softly, his thumb trembling slightly as it traced Winter’s cheekbone. “And in every moment since then, no matter how far apart we have been, I have known, without doubt, that I am got. That in a world that guarantees little, there you are.”

Winter blinked hard, fighting the water that gathered on his lash line at his partner’s soft words. “Greg…”

“I spoke to your mother,” he pointed out quietly - unnecessarily, really, but by way of explanation for the moment they were in. Winter nodded once.

“I assumed as much, though I wasn’t sure what about.”

“I asked her if I may have her permission.”

Winter raised an eyebrow. “Permission for what?”

Greg turned to face his partner more directly, free hand raising to rest gently against Winter’s neck, gaze drifting for just a moment to where the hair had grown back in an interrupted pattern. “To bind my life to yours,” he replied simply. “In every way available to us.”

Winter’s throat seemed too dry, tongue too clumsy. “… Oh,” he whispered eventually, eyes wide. “Wh— what, uh… What did she say?”

Tyne’s fingers came up, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his partner’s ear delicately. It was getting long again now — the way it had been when they’d first met, almost four years ago to the day. “She said yes.”

“Oh,” Winter whispered again. “That… That was… Good of her.”

The lieutenant’s lips twitched, and his hands wrapped around one of the younger man’s, shaking a little but undeniably sure. “It was.” He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to Winter’s softly, breathing him in for a moment.

“You didn’t warn me,” Winter murmured, and this time, Greg couldn’t keep from smiling a little.

“No.”

The younger man swallowed dryly. “You’re serious.”

“I have never been more serious about anything in my life,” Tyne replied evenly, eyes closing for a beat before once hand came up to cup his partner’s face gently, fingertips fluttering against his jaw.

“I cannot offer you the things I wish I could,” Greg murmured softly, mahogany locked on azure once more. “I cannot promise you safety, or acceptance, from the world. But I can promise you a port in the storm. I can promise that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, even if I can’t promise I’ll never fall short. I can promise you love, and home, for as long as I live. I can promise you loyalty and fidelity. I can promise that I will fight by your side when the world is hard. I can promise that I will walk beside you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

He exhaled once, softly, his thumb caressing his partner’s cheekbone tenderly. “I cannot offer you paper, or anything the world will recognize. But… In every way that is available to us, I am asking, Winter… If you will marry me. Please,” he added, lips twitching just a little.

By the time the lieutenant had fallen quiet, Winter had hardly dared breathe. His free hand came to Tyne’s hip, first resting, then clinging, as if the words themselves had made his knees unreliable. “Gregor,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I… You…”

“Hm?” the older man replied steadily, though a flicker of uncertainty passed over his expression.

“Yes,” Winter breathed, eyes welling. “I— fuck. Yes. Yes!”

The sound that escaped him was one of joy and surprise and excitement, his mouth finding Tyne’s with a desperation that made his lieutenant stumble slightly, fingers shifting to wrap in his partner’s hair.

“Yes?” Greg repeated softly against his officer’s lips, almost in disbelief.

“Yes,” Winter enthused, pulling him closer. “A thousand times, yes.”

The small pamphlet that awaited him in his room detailing the saunas and heated pools had been unexpected, but he quickly found himself heading back downstairs, following symbols on signs until he reached an area where steam gathered in the low rafters, softening the edges around him.

It was not a locker room as he knew the concept – more a series of benches on which to place their things, safely away from the water, for all the irony that held. His regulation swim trunks felt heavy enough simply from the cling of the moisture in the air, and a part of him lamented the thought of the waterlogged fabric weighing him down.

Through a cracked window, he could hear the ships in the harbor, creaking and sighing at anchor, and he set his jaw.

Duty comes first.

It had been easy – far too easy – when he saw Lieutenant Tyne ahead of him on the dock to imagine that this place could be the start of something. When Winter saw him turn one way as he stepped onto the street, the seaman deliberately turned the other, his muscles taut and eyes pointed forward.

I will not be reason he is noticed.

It seemed as though life off the ship existed in a pause. No watches, no drills – here, the war felt distant, like it had on the docks before Pearl Harbor.

As he padded quietly through the double doors, towel slung over his shoulders, he paused, taking in the sight before him with lips slightly parted. Goosebumps erupted over his skin at the sudden change of temperature, but he hardly noticed, enraptured by the way the steam from the hot water curled and danced in the air.

There was one larger body of water, where several seamen already lounged against the edges, heads tipped back in luxurious appreciation, as well as a number of smaller pools, most of which sat empty. Winter moved off to one side, leaving his towel close by as he sat on the edge, letting his feet adjust to the temperature with a quiet grunt of appreciation. His gaze travelled lazily over the other men through the steam, noting the conversation muted by shared exhaustion and a bone-deep weariness, but with a soft undercurrent of well-earned rest. There were no jackets or rank insignia – they were simply men, wrapped in towels and fatigue.

Slowly, he lowered himself further into the water, letting out a soft sound that lay halfway between relief and disbelief, tension easing from his shoulders as he settled against the stone. His eyes closed, head falling back in quiet pleasure, losing himself to the feeling of heat seeping into limbs that hadn’t quite felt warm enough in days.

The water shifted minutely, accompanied by the quiet sound of it lapping over the edge. Lazily, Winter cracked an eye open, intending to politely greet whoever had opted to join him and return to his silent enjoyment – but instead he found himself sitting straighter, arms dropping from where they had draped over the sides, adjusting his position instinctively as the Lieutenant settled opposite him.

He looked different out of uniform – still broad and strong, but softened around the edges, the authority he exuded less prominent, even if not gone entirely. A quiet sigh of his own left his lips as he leant back, and he smiled faintly.

“I’d forgotten what this feels like,” Winter murmured, feeling the words come readily, the careful, deliberate rules of conversation they usually shared becoming hazy with the steam.

“So had I,” the lieutenant replied, his voice just as gentle. They settled into their positions, heat wreathing around them, heavy and indulgent as it drew the ache from strained muscles and old bruises.

Slowly, Winter’s head returned to its position against the stone, and for a while, silence settled around them. The space was punctuated by the occasional low murmur of voices, reminding them that they were not truly alone – that even here, as steam curled between them and made everything seem just a little unreal, they could be observed.

“This place,” Winter mutters eventually, one eye opening once more, “feels like cheating.”

The lieutenant had his own head resting back, a small smile tugging at his lips. “If it is, it’s sanctioned.”

“The best kind.”

Winter takes in the hard cut of his jaw, the short, dark hair curled slightly from humidity. Heat had flushed colour into his cheeks, softening the authoritarian lines carved by wind and work.

He seems more… Human.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” the Lieutenant noted, and Winter looked away even though Tyne’s eyes remained contentedly closed, nervous about being caught staring.

“Just… Tired,” he replied at length.

Of fighting. Of trying not to let anyone look too closely. Of pretending that I don’t feel more for you than I should.

“More than usual?”

Winter considered lying, pausing infinitesimally. “… Yeah.”

The lieutenant nodded, accepting the answer without probing, words passing unspoken over the space between them. “You’ve been carrying a lot.”

“So have you.”

That had the lieutenant’s eyes flicking open, earning Winter a look – first surprised, as if startled by the boldness of the response, then thoughtful. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

They sat with the truth hanging in the air, encased in steam that passed as a tentative privacy. Around them, men came and went, and someone laughed softly. Time stretched out into breaths and pauses, marked by the gentle movement of water – different than the sound of waves on hull, but familiar enough that it still felt a little like home now.

Winter became aware, gradually, of how close Tyne was. Not too close, but simply nearer than before – close enough that the warmth between them felt shared rather than a parallel experience.

“This is different,” he noted, quietly.

“Yes,” the lieutenant answered, his tone similarly hushed, not attempting to pretend that he didn’t understand. “It is.”

“Feels like we’re not being watched.”

Tyne glanced around himself, taking in steam, shadows and eyes that searched for nothing in particular. “In a situation like this, people don’t watch for things they don’t know to expect. But they’re always watching.” His lip curved into a small smile, and Winter watched it for longer than it should.

The space between them filled with intention as Winter shifted, slow and deliberate, giving the lieutenant every opportunity to object – to leave, if he so wished. Their knees brushed beneath the water, light enough to be accidental.

Neither of them moved away.

The lieutenant’s breath caught, just enough to notice.

Winter had already decided how this would end, the moment he saw Tyne settling opposite him. The lieutenant would keep a polite distance and make a neutral remark. He would leave first, because that’s what men like him did when things drifted too close to the edge. He kept things under control. Correct. Winter had seen it before – the tightening, the withdrawal. The moment when something not started, not spoken, was quietly closed off before it grew. Winter had braced himself for it.

So when Tyne shifted, Winter didn’t look at him right away. He kept his eyes on the water and the way it moved, steam blurring the line between body and stone. He kept himself still and neutral. Easy to leave behind.

The lieutenant moved, and Winter felt it more than saw it – the change in the water and the way the heat displaced to fill the space left vacant by his body. Tyne straightened to leave, his hand coming up to grasp the edge.

There it is. The ending.

Winter kept his gaze fixed forward. He didn’t turn, or give the lieutenant reason to hesitate. He would not ask for something the man had already decided not to give, nor would he make that decision harder.

The hand didn’t leave the stone.

It stayed there, paused, uncertain.

Winter glanced sideways then, peering from the corner of his eye just enough to see that Tyne hadn’t risen. Instead, his arm was tense, shoulder set like he was holding himself mid-motion. The pause stretched out; it was not one borne of politeness or indecision, but from effort. The effort of stopping himself from doing something he had already started – something he wanted.

The lieutenant exhaled, slow and controlled, and lowered his hand back into the water, not looking at Winter as he did it.

He stayed.

Something inside the seaman shifted, quiet and profound.

This isn’t hesitation anymore.

This is choice.

Winter said something then – something mundane and ordinary that barely registered even as it left his lips. Something about the heat feeling good on his muscles. It was an excuse for sound, an acknowledgement of presence. A quiet nod to the fact that they were both still there.

Tyne answered too quickly. His voice was steady, but it came without the careful delay Winter had come to expect, as though he was no longer checking himself for permission.

As though he had already decided.

He angled himself slightly – not closer, but not further, simply more direct – and the space between them became heavy and measured.

It was then that Winter understood, with a clarity that made his breath hitch minutely, startled.

This wasn’t staying for the sake of seeing what Winter would do – this was presence because he wanted to be there. The realization hit the seaman heavily, every fibre of his being alive with it. It wasn’t hope – hope was diaphanous. No, what Tyne had provided in that moment was something far more tangible, and far more dangerous.

Confirmation.

Winter knew, above all else, that men who didn’t want you left as soon as it was easy; his dad had shown him as much. Men who were simply being kind found reasons to back away when the closeness became more than they wanted.

But Tyne did neither.

He stayed, in a moment when leaving would have cost him nothing.

Winter didn’t move closer, unwilling to test the shift in their relationship. He didn’t want to force Tyne to reconsider. Instead, he simply let the moment exist as it was, steadily and with the quiet proof of mutual interest established by the presence beside him.

For the first time, Winter wasn’t guessing. He wasn’t reading into glances, or tone, or restraint; he wasn’t half-seeing things that may or may not have existed in the first place. The choice was subtle, but it was definitive, and Winter had watched it play out – had watched Tyne choose him, without being asked or expected.

Abruptly, Winter saw it all.

He had known attraction before. He had known want, sharp and bodily, in the way glances could linger and proximity could pull like a tide against a mooring line. But this was something different – more than desire.

Tyne did not take when he could have. He stopped himself.

And not, Winter had realised in that sharp moment of clarity, because of a lack of wanting. Not because that desire wasn’t there. If it had been only desire, Tyne would have acted. It would have been brief, and physical, and over. It would have collapsed under the risk that being under the lieutenant’s command held – or not, but only in a way that would have been an act of taking. A manipulation of his position, his authority, his privacy.

But he hadn’t.

He thought back, scanning the way that Tyne first watched the room before watching him. The way his hand had hovered, briefly, then fell away without contact. The way he had positioned himself between Winter and attention – not as a claim, but as a shield.

It unsettled Winter more than outright boldness would have.

He had expected hunger.

Indulgence.

Desire.

He had not expected care.

Outwardly, nothing changed. He did not react dramatically; he simply let the knowledge settle in his chest, aching and undeniable.

Tyne was afraid.

Not of being discovered, though that was not nothing.

Not of being punished, though that, too, lingered.

He was afraid of doing harm.

To Winter.

Because he cared.

Winter had spent years knowing what he was valued for. His strength, his endurance. How much he could take without complaint. He knew what it was to be useful, and to be wanted only insofar as doing so was the better option. But this… This was not that.

The restraint was not of disinterest – Winter could see that now. The tension in him was suddenly clear as the heat of the springs around them, in the way his voice dropped and steadied, disciplining himself.

Desire was there. But it was being managed. Because the care was worth more to him.

And that was Winter’s undoing – because nobody had ever cared this way for him before.

If Tyne felt something that required such careful attention, then Winter was not a risk, or an indulgence.

He was something that mattered.

And that terrified Winter far more than being simply wanted ever had, as he thought about all the ways that caring could break things. It would be much easier if it had simply been about bodies and desire. The loss of one another, in that, would manageable. But care? To care for one another, and to lose each other… That would be something else entirely. And that was why Tyne looked at him like he was choosing, over and over, not to cross the line because doing so would start something that could break them both.

The understanding of Tyne’s restraint came with the knowledge that there was no going back to pretending that this was nothing. Desire, even mutual, could be ignored. But someone moving so carefully through the world – not through concern of himself, but for concern for Winter…

There was nothing that could make him ignore that.

“Winter,” the lieutenant murmured, shaking him from his thoughts, and the seaman blinked as he looked up. With a heavy inhale, he turned more fully to face the officer.

“If this is- If it’s not… Okay…” He stopped, searching the lieutenant’s face, but the other man didn’t answer immediately, silently weighing his own choices.

“It’s okay,” he replied finally, quietly. “If we’re careful.”

“I can be careful,” Winter answered.

It’s my turn. Let me be careful with you.

The seaman lifted his hand slowly from the water, his fingers dripping a half inch from the surface, and paused halfway, uncertain despite the reassurance.

The lieutenant didn’t pull back. He simply turned his hand palm-up, quiet and inviting.

Their fingers met, warmth threading through Winter’s nerves – not electricity, but something softer and kinder.

Alignment.

Tyne’s thumb brushed over Winter’s knuckles once, almost unconsciously. The familiarity of the motion had Winter leaning in, slowly enough to give the lieutenant time to stop him – to stop this, before it became more than it already was.

The kiss was soft, uncertain only in that it was new, not because either doubted it. Lips met gently, lingering just long enough to register warmth and pressure and the reality of it.

The world narrowed around them – becoming steam and breath and the faint mineral taste of the air and on the other’s mouth. The lieutenant’s hand tightened infinitesimally in Winter’s, his action working to ground them both.

When they parted only seconds later, everything had shifted.

They stayed close, their foreheads resting together and eyes closed, simply breathing one another in.

“All right?” Tyne murmured.

Winter’s smile was small, stunned. “Yeah. You?”

The lieutenant let out a soft exhale, something close to a laugh wrapped in the sound. “Yes.”

They sat there a while, their hands still entwined beneath the water and knees touching, heat and steam wreathed around them, preserving the moment for a little longer.

But their stillness cannot last forever, and eventually, someone nearby shifted, and reality began to ease back in.

They separated with practiced smoothness, their distance re-established.

By the time they part ways outside the locker room, changing out of wet, heavy trunks with eyes diverted and professional – correct – nothing about them looked improper. But both knew that something had settled between them – steady, carefully chosen, and undeniable. Something that wasn’t stolen in the dark, or rushed by fear, or driven by hungry passion. It was something that came in warmth and quiet, in a place where rules bent just enough to allow them to finally see one another clearly.

Winter headed toward his room, carrying the moment in his heart not as a secret, but as proof.

We can choose one another, and we can still stand in this world afterward.

The corridor smelt faintly of soap and of the minerals in the steam, of heated, wet pine – like the whole building had absorbed the essence of the springs and folded it quietly into itself. The floorboards were old enough to complain beneath a man’s feet, even if that man tried to move quietly. It was not grand, not in the traditional sense, but after months at sea, warm and dry and private felt like excess.

The lieutenant paused at the top of the stairs, and listened. Not because he expected danger here, but because it was what he did – catalogued sounds and noticed the details.

He observed.

Below, faint voices murmured in Icelandic he didn’t understand. Someone laughed behind a closed door, soft and low. The wind made the aged wood groan gently. His fingers found the key in his pocket, the receipt for his room folded into a neat square beside it. He touched the items briefly, though the choice had already been made. These things were not an option – they were deniability.

Carefulness and care.

He stopped outside the room and stood too long, hovering, noticing details in lieu of movement – uneven paint around the frame, the way the lamplight shined on the brass number, and the warmth still in his skin – though whether from the water or the experience, he couldn’t say, if he was honest with himself.

Only once, he told himself that this was foolish.

Immediately, he told himself that this was necessary.

Not necessary for the war, or for his discipline, or for obedience to a machine larger than himself. No, this was necessary for something deeper, something he would not give a name to – not yet.

He knocked.

Once. Twice.

He knocked, and the sound was louder than it should be in a hallway as narrow as the one found in a nondescript inn just outside the city of Reykjavík, an inn with doors thin enough that the lieutenant can hear movement inside before the latch clicks.

The door opened, and Winter stood before Tyne with his collar undone, hair damp and dark from the springs, softened by the lamplight that caught the water droplets and made him look younger and less armored. He looked surprised, just for a moment, and then resigned, as if he had been expecting the knock to come without wanting to admit it, even to himself.

“Sir,” the seaman acknowledged quietly, inclining his head.

The lieutenant’s chest tightened at the word. They both knew it was right, it was correct.

It felt like the raising of a wall he longed to tear down.

Tyne shook his head – minutely, microscopically, but just enough to have Winter stepping back, opening the door wider, quietly granting space, both physical and emotional.

The lieutenant crossed the threshold, his eyes passing briefly over the simple room, taking in the narrow bed, the heat in the air, the lamp turned low on the small desk.

When Winter closed the door behind them, the sound was soft.

The finality was not.

For a moment, neither spoke, and Winter wondered if Tyne could hear the pulse hammering in his throat.

The sight of the lieutenant at his door had made something squeeze in his chest, painful and tight.

We went too far. We crossed a line, and now it is done.

But then Tyne shook his head, shedding the title, and stepped into the room as simply a man who cared for another.

Winter watched quietly as the lieutenant removed his coat, placing it over the chair with a deliberate, measured care. He did not shed his shirt, or loosen the collar – staying half within the safe and the known, as if unsure of how much of himself he can set down before it becomes too much to pick back up.

Winter rubbed the back of his neck, his uncertainty evident, shifting his weight, unsure of how to place his own body in this new dynamic. In the end, he stood like a man who was waiting, even if he wasn’t quite sure what for. “I didn’t think you’d…”

“I wasn’t sure I would,” Tyne admitted quietly, turning to face Winter at last, a flicker of surprise at his own honesty crossing his features. “I… Didn’t want to go back to the ship.”

Winter’s mouth twitched infinitesimally. “Same here.”

Tyne glanced at the bed, only once and only briefly, before diverting his eyes quickly, each noticing how charged the simple and staple piece of furniture had become with the two men alone in the room. “You opted for a room instead?”

“Figured I could afford a night of not listenin’ to snorin’. And… Everythin’ else.”

Winter didn’t realise it until it had happened – the slipping away of the formality in speech he’d learned in training, accents minimized until each could understand the other without difficulty or barrier. Tyne’s lip twitched infinitesimally at the blaze of the Brooklynite he’d met, then nodded, his understanding of the meaning beneath the words clear in the motion. “I did, too.”

Winter’s eyes lifted, sharp and searching, attentive as he tried to read the lieutenant’s intention, striving to match it. “Are you alright?”

Tyne paused, considering his answer carefully, his gaze flitting minutely as he catalogued and inventoried himself. “… I am,” he replied slowly. “… More than I expected.”

Winter smiled softly, shoulders easing as he looked down once more, brief and shy. “Me too.”

Silence settled for a moment more, without awkwardness, but weighted with expectation. The wind rattled the windowpane lightly, pressed against the glass as if a reminder that the world existed outside of the room.

“I don’t want to make this harder,” Winter blurted abruptly, the thought having sat in his throat since the moment the lieutenant stepped into his room. “I know. I know what it looks like, if you’re seen-”

“You won’t,” Tyne interrupted, a little too quickly, quietly betraying his eagerness. “You won’t. And nobody saw me come up – and I’m not here long.”

Winter considered him for a moment, thoughtful. “You’ve already decided how this goes.”

“It’s what I do.”

“And if it goes differently? If I am something unexpected?”

The words surprised them both, the tone gentle but challenging. The lieutenant turned his head slightly, taking in the seaman stood before him, straight-backed and wholly himself. Winter thought of the springs and a kiss that happened under steam and public noise, where it could have been mistaken, acutely aware that here, there would be no disguise. In this room, the reality of choice sat openly, demanding to be noticed.

“You already are,” Tyne acknowledged gently, the words coming accompanied by a soft exhale though his nose – a mixture of amusement and undeniably fond frustration.

“Tell me why you came,” Winter requested, his voice quiet, hands steady.

“I came because I wanted to see you again,” Tyne replied slowly – not with hesitation, but with gravity and sincerity. In this, as with in everything, he was deliberate. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere… Less watched.”

Winter swallowed, though it does little to ease the dryness in his throat. “And?”

“And I wanted to see if we could be near each other without it feeling like we’d made a mistake. If we can be near each other and not have it feel like a mistake in the moment after.”

Winter’s brow furrowed, just a little. “A mistake?” he asked quietly, and Tyne winced.

“Not a mistake,” Tyne clarified immediately, instinctively moving a step closer, one hand raising as if to shield Winter from harm that had already occurred. “No. I wanted to- to…” The lieutenant frowned a little, his forehead creasing. “I’m not always good with words. Orders – that’s clear. Unequivocal. A task set. It’s… Easy. But this?” he gestured around them both, the vulnerability of his confession tangible. “This is… I don’t know the words for these things.”

Winter’s stance relaxed, losing the wounded and defensive edge, and he lapsed into thoughtful silence for a heartbeat. “… Sit with me.”

The seaman moved first, perching on the edge of the bed, wary of taking up too much space. It took only a beat for Tyne to follow suit, a careful distance away, the mattress dipping and drawing them nearer to one another without either man moving, and Winter glanced at him, hesitant and uncertain – of conduct, but never of the man beside him. His hand rose, stopping halfway once more, a question in the movement. He could see the multitude of reasons that flashed behind Tyne’s eyes – consequences and boundaries and cascading effects.

Winter could see the moment the lieutenant decided he wanted the contact more than he wanted the safety of distance, confirmed by the soft nod. When the seaman’s hand rested gently on his officer’s forearm, warm and solid, he saw Tyne’s breath deepen. His thumb stroked once, soothing and subtle, and he could feel the lieutenant’s pulse jump infinitesimally in a way that seemed almost laughable for a man who had stood under gunfire. Tyne’s eyes closed briefly before his own hand rested carefully on Winter’s, the most subtle of tremors in the work-worn touch.

When Winter leant in, he made sure to leave time for the lieutenant to change his mind. To make sure this wasn’t a mistake.

When their mouths met, it was in a kiss that was softer, quieter than the one of the springs, done in privacy and without the knowledge that interruption could come at any moment. Winter focused on the subtle movement and pressure of Tyne’s lips on his, the lieutenant seeming to test what was allowed under his own rules.

It was reverent.

The pair parted after a moment, their breaths coming shallowly, heads close enough together that their breath mingled. “Still okay?” Winter murmured.

“Yes. Very.” Tyne’s voice came rougher than he intended. Winter smiled softly, and kissed him again.

This kiss lingered longer.

The lieutenant’s hand moved from Winter’s to the back of his neck, fingers sinking into the still-damp hair, while Winter’s touch shifted  to the other’s waist, resting like an anchor – grounding and steady.

There was a third, then a fourth. Winter paused between each, checking for consent in the silence, and the lieutenant answered with the only language he could find – he leaned in again. At one point, Tyne’s control slipped just enough for a soft sound to escape him – a quiet huff that betrayed the intensity swirling inside him – and Winter stilled instantly, eyes searching.

Tyne swallowed, nodded once. “I’m alright.”

When Winter nodded in response, something sparked in Tyne’s eyes, his touch coming steadier, reassured by the restraint that the other man could show. The willingness to stop, to wait, to move only as Tyne wanted at the slightest indication, spoke more of attentive care than impulsive desire, and Tyne seemed to find a grounding in it.

It was a feeling Winter now knew himself, and knew how comfortably one could surround themselves with it.

When he shifted closer, the lieutenant’s gaze dropped briefly to his mouth, then back to his eyes. “We should be careful,” he noted quietly, seemingly reminding himself as much as the other.

Winter nodded. “We are.”

“And we will be,” the lieutenant insisted gently.

“I won’t push,” Winter replied, and he could see how quickly Tyne believed him – an act of surrender in itself, even before their lips met once more.

Tyne’s fingers tightened once at the nape of Winter’s neck, and the hand at the lieutenant’s waist shifted minutely, thumb brushing the edge of his shirt, exploring boundaries with curiosity, not pressure. “Gregor.” The word came out as barely a whisper, and both men paused, drawing back far enough to look at each other, and uncertainty flared in Winter’s chest when he saw the lieutenant’s amusement. “I- Should I-”

Briefly, Tyne’s lips skirted over Winter’s, silencing his stammering. “Nobody calls me Gregor,” he replied, his mouth curling into a grin. “Greg. Just Greg.”

Winter laughed – soft and surprised – and the sound dissolved as he kissed Tyne – Greg – again, thanking him without the words.

Time passed in minutes, or perhaps in hours – unmoored from watches and bells, things felt less strict, less structured.

Without thinking, without discussion, they had shifted to the headboard, and when Winter’s arm passed around the lieutenant’s waist, Greg found himself leaning into it without hesitation. Winter tracked the steady rise and fall of Greg’s breathing against his side, and his eyes closed, relishing in a kind of peace he didn’t realise he’d wanted, or even knew existed.

“Feels like the world’s holding its breath.” Winter turned his head infinitesimally, looking down at the top of the officer’s head. “You reckon we’ll remember this? Here?”

“Yes.”

The answer came immediately, and warmth sparked in Winter’s chest. And because he asked, because he wanted to be certain, Greg turned and kissed him again, slowly and deliberately. A promise without promises.

When they separated, Winter rested his forehead against Greg’s shoulder for a moment. “Alright,” he whispered, nodding once.

The lieutenant knew he should go.

He also knew he wouldn’t.

Not yet.

Not while Winter’s warmth was beside him, the outside world held at bay for a short while by wood and steam.

Not while he could pretend, for a few hours, that the war had not taken apart every gentle thing.

His hand slid to Winter’s jaw, cupping gently. He’d never touched someone like this – so carefully, so reverently that it felt almost like blasphemy. But in a room that held them quietly, he found the space to be intimate without being reckless – to be careful, but to be tender still.

At some point, Greg became aware that his body is no longer braced for interruption.

On the ship, even when in his own cabin, he never truly relaxed. There was always an expectation, a knock, a report, a crisis. Even sleep was shallow, interrupted by bells and footsteps and the unwavering knowledge that he was responsible for lives that could be taken in a heartbeat.

Neither was undressed beyond what basic comfort and the inn’s warmth required. Their restraint was visible in their careful alignment, in hands that stayed at shoulders and waists, in fingertips that explore jaws, throats, chests – intimate, but not opting for more. Not choosing something they wanted to be experienced when there wasn’t a lingering fear of tomorrow. Instead, Greg learned the places Winter seemed to like – how he softened and breathed deeper when Greg pressed a kiss to his forehead, how his breathing became just a little tremulous when fingers tightened around his hip. He was surprised by how much he liked Winter’s mouth, the softness contrasting with his strength, the younger man adjusting instinctively before Greg even realised he needed a beat to catch his breath and steady himself.

Greg’s thumb traced Winter’s cheekbone, slow and enraptured. “I didn’t expect to be able to do this,” he admitted quietly, and a flicker of a smile passed over the seaman’s features, eyebrow raising.

“Kiss?” he teased, and Greg chuckled softly.

“Be gentle.”

When Winter studied him for a moment, the lieutenant felt as though he were considering his very soul. Then the other man nodded once, sure in his conclusion. “You can be gentle. You just don’t let yourself. You don’t think you can, most of the time.”

Greg’s breath caught, and he pressed a kiss tenderly to Winter’s temple, eyes closing briefly, adoration filling his silence.

They spoke in fragments, in small confessions slipped between kisses, as if words couldn’t bear too much weight at one time – as if they needed to ground themselves in one another in order to continue.

In a hushed, soothing voice, Winter told him about working the docks. He told him about the way the river smelled after a heavy rain, about noticing  men he’d grown up with disappear around him as the war escalated, and of watching ships leave and knowing  not all would return.

The lieutenant told Winter about the first time he realised he could not remain untouched by his command – that leadership was not just a persona, but a constant decision to be responsible for men who may not live long enough for you to learn their names. He told him that he hated the way the war made everything feel temporary.

Winter listened without interruption, and when Greg stopped, he kissed him softly.

You’re not alone in this. I hear you. I see you.

Greg’s jaw tightened at that, flooded with an emotion he can’t quite name, and he turned his head, pressing his mouth to Winter’s throat, just beneath his jaw.

When Winter shivered, Greg pulled back immediately, his eyes searching, but found the other man smiling faintly. “You don’t have to stop.” The lieutenant swallowed and nodded, but his control had tightened once more. With a hand finding Greg’s shoulder and squeezing softly, Winter pressed his forehead gently to the officer’s. “I’m not trying to make you break.”

“You don’t have to try,” Greg replied quietly. Winter absorbed the words and nodded, his eyes softening, and kissed the lieutenant again, slower and more carefully.

At one point, Greg found himself smiling.

Only a little, but inside himself, he noticed a warmth that came dangerously close to happiness, and the realization startled him.

Happiness was not a wartime emotion. Relief, certainly. Gratitude, perhaps. But happiness felt like something that would draw punishment from an unkind world.

As if noticing a shift, Winter’s arm cinched more firmly around his waist, constant and grounding without constricting, and Greg tucked deeper into Winter’s shoulder in a way that would appear like weakness to most who saw it.

Greg knew he was doing it, and he let himself.

The room felt smaller than it had when he first stepped inside – closer, more intimate, with the low flame in the lamp turning everything amber. When the wind rattled  the window again, Winter shifted instinctively, as if to place himself between Tyne and any threat – even something as simple as a gust of air. Greg noticed, and something sharp reverberated in his chest.

“You’re always ready to take the hit,” he murmured.

“Someone’s gotta,” Winter replied softly.

Greg turned his head, pressing a kiss to Winter’s shoulder through the fabric.

A thank you, but not that alone.

A don’t.

A not you.

Anyone but you.

“I’d do this forever.”

Greg’s eyes opened, startled by the rawness in the barely audible whisper, and Winter flushed minutely, regret flickering across his features. “Sorry,  I-”

Tyne silenced him with a kiss, and when he drew back, his voice was steady. “Don’t apologize.”

Winter searched his face, his gaze intense and probing. “You don’t think it’s foolish?”

“I think it’s dangerous,” Greg answered slowly, and Winter nodded once before he continued, quieter, “but I don’t think it’s foolish.”

Winter’s breath left him in a soft, relieved exhale, and he rested his forehead gently against the lieutenant’s temple, quiet and savoring.

“You’re fading.”

The lamp had almost extinguished, darkness closing in, and Greg opened his mouth to deny it out of habit before a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Sleep.”

The lieutenant hesitated, because to sleep here felt like giving up. To sleep would mean to end this night, and face what came after.

Winter pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “I’ve got you,” he whispered – a promise of presence, in a world where protection could not be guaranteed.

Greg’s chest ached, and he let his body lean into Winter’s warmth, the pair fitting together comfortably as his eyes closed.

He fell asleep to the steady rhythm of Winter’s breathing, the inn creaking around them, and the knowledge that, for a few hours, he was not required to be unbreakable.

Winter watched Lieutenant Gregor Tyne lapse into sleep, the other man’s fingers unconsciously tightening in the front of his shirt as he drew himself closer, features finally fully relaxed.

With a soft, contented sigh, Winter let his head fall back, his own eyes closing.

When they rose, Greg made the coffee a little stronger than usual without mentioning why.

He never asked questions. Never pushed Winter to speak before he was ready. Sometimes he never did. Sometimes he would tell Greg about his nightmares in the light of day when the pain felt a little less sharp. Sometimes they’d burnt away so completely with the dawn that he almost forgot it had happened.

Sometimes, life was simply too good to want to return to the darkness.

And it would prove to be one of those days.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Greg looked at him uncertainly, something akin to disorientation in his gaze. “What thing?”

“Lookin’ like you’re waitin’ for orders,” Winter chuckled, squeezing his fingers gently.

Greg shifted his posture consciously, frowning a little. “… Better?”

The younger man shook his head fondly, laughing. “Marginally.”

It was no secret that Greg found the civilian life and its lack of structure overwhelming. He’d made it clear time and again; he missed knowing what to do and where to be, what he should be doing with his hands at any given moment. After a life at sea, Brooklyn felt loud, and loose, and too full of people that did not care about the sense of responsibility he still carried, even without anyone under his command.

With a small, thoughtful hum, Winter stopped at a street vendor, ordering without hesitation. When Tyne tried to ask what he was getting, Winter simply waved away the questions, practically bouncing on the spot with impatience before he was handed two wooden sticks.

“Here!” He handed one off to Greg with a broad grin, watching expectantly.

“What… Is it?” Tyne asked, one eyebrow arched.

“It’s food,” Winter deadpanned with a sigh.

“I got that far,” Greg replied in the same tone, sighing back just as heavily.

“Just eat it,” came the response, accompanied by a snort. “Trust me.”

Almost reluctantly, the lieutenant took a slow bite, and his eyebrows lifted despite himself. “Oh.”

“Mhm,” Winter replied with a smug grin.

“That’s… Actually… Excellent.”

“See?” the younger man replied, nudging him lightly as he took a bite of his own corndog. “Civilian life, my love. Full of surprises. Like meat inside sweet bread.”

They walked slowly when they moved around the city. It was through necessity - Tyne couldn’t move with the same speed he used to - but also a sense that life was slower now. They had time to look around and observe where they were.

But when Greg slowed further of his own volition, peering in the window of a bookstore, Winter grinned.

This is new.

“You wanna go in?” he asked, head tipped as he considered his partner with an adoring ache in his chest.

Tyne hesitated, eyes flicking to the younger man. “… But I don’t need anything.”

With a snort, Winter took his hand, and tugged gently. “That’s not what I asked.”

Greg bought a book he didn’t technically need, and looked faintly embarrassed about it for the rest of the walk home.

Winter found it all extremely endearing.

The younger man cooked that night, with his partner sat on the counter, a companionable silence between the two, each focused on his own task.

Winter with not burning the pasta.

Greg with the exploits of a small, hairy man and a seemingly very crucial piece of jewelery.

“So this guy - this homely little guy, with his beautiful hole - an amazing description by the way - is just… Off in the world? With some dwarves that showed up and ate his food? And some troll mom out there was just naming her kid Tom? In a world where the protagonist is called Bilbo, and the other characters have names like Dwalin and Gloin and Gandalf… But not the trolls. The trolls have names like Burt.” He snorted to himself and flashed the cover at his partner. “Have you read this? It’s not bad.”

Winter’s lips twitched. “I did, yeah. A while ago, though.”

Without asking, without warning, Greg’s voice, low and melodic in its way, began to fill the small kitchen.

“They did not sing or tell stories that day, even though the weather improved; nor the next day, nor the day after. They had begun to feel that danger was not far away on either side…”

It became a new routine.

A few times a week, Winter would take over the cooking. Greg would sit on the counter and keep him company, reading aloud.

He read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz when he was finished with the Hobbit - and so they continued.

A small piece of their forever, page by page, lived quietly in a nondescript Brooklyn apartment by the water.