FIC: Coming Together (complete, one-shot)

Yes, more angst from me. I wonder if I can ever write Eroica comedy...

Title: Coming Together (retitled)
Author: Gloriana
Fandom: From Eroica With Love
Pairings: Klaus/Dorian
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG-13

DISCLAIMER: From Eroica with love is the product of Aoike Yasuko’s hard work and dedication, not mine.

SUMMARY: Devotion, without sustenance, can reach its limits. Can Klaus realize it in time?



XXXX

There were few things that could make Dorian Red Gloria, Earl of Gloria, feel old and one of them was standing in front of him at that moment.

“Uncle Dorian!”

The Englishman felt his mouth pulling into a warm smile as he looked at his twenty-two-year-old nephew. The Honourable Theodore Worley, the only son of his eldest sister Marguerite, exuberantly hugged his favourite (lone) uncle. “I didn’t see you at the church! Mother said that you might be busy! And what are you doing out here? Have you met Sophie yet? Wait until you meet her!”

“How can I miss my favourite nephew’s wedding? And don’t worry, Theo, I just needed a moment away from the crush,” Dorian replied, returning the hug. “Your mother outdid herself.” He looked around him at the well-dressed British upper-class who were gathered in the enormous, beautiful ballroom. “A true coup, I must say.” Dorian smiled dazzlingly at a portly man looking his way, recognizing a very well-connected viscount. The other man nodded politely before hurrying away. An ironic smirk touched the thief’s lips for a moment.

Theo wrinkled his nose. “I couldn’t wait to get it over and done, you know,” he told his uncle in an aggrieved tone, “Sophie has spent more time with Mother visiting dress shops than she has with me the past six months! And the conversations at meals have all been about the wedding---like I really cared what she wore as long as she became my wife!” The handsome, if slightly freckled, face bore a sweet, lovesick smile that made Dorian feel immeasurably ancient. And lonely.

“My dear boy, a girl’s wedding is an event that simply cannot be rushed,” he said, trying to shrug off his uncharacteristic melancholy. “Let her have her dreams of silks and taffetas, you have your friends to run off to for escape if it gets too much.” Dorian easily exchanged his empty glass for two brimming flutes of champagne as a server passed him. He handed one to his nephew and watched, amused, as the younger man downed it like a whiskey shot. “Theo, love, relax. She’ll be back quick enough. Unlikely for the girl to run off after the wedding, as you well know.”

Theo shook his head, a rueful expression on his face. After the wedding, they had been given the opportunity to change for the reception but the new Lady Worley has yet to make an appearance. “I say most of my friends are all getting married. Our recent get-togethers have lately become sessions to collectively whinge at the new horror of a mother-in-law or what atrocious new tuxedo the girls are trying to put us in. Poor Jack, Vivian is all but determined into putting him in a pink tuxedo---she calls it a rose-tint on white, but pink is pink and that is just not done!” He ended, his expression exaggeratedly aghast. Dorian restrained the bubbling chuckle into a small quirk at one corner of his mouth.

“So what have you been up to?” the boy changed the topic quickly, studying his uncle carefully. “The last we saw you was during Easter in Marseilles two years ago and you only visited for a couple of hours! Elizabeth had her first daughter, you know, and Therese was devastated when you didn’t show up for her wedding!”

Dorian smiled mysteriously. “Oh you know, dearest, been running here and there all over the globe. There were a few exhibits that I simply couldn’t miss! I would have surely been there for both Beth and Tessa if there haven’t been a few emergencies that I had to deal with.” Like James accidentally tripping over a Mafia operation and the Major captured and stuck in a nuclear submarine. The earl’s eyes darkened at the latter memory---that had been one of the riskiest missions Dorian had ever gone into; if Klaus hadn’t known exactly what he was doing at the time, the Englishman could have accidentally launched a nuclear warhead towards China! He shook his head to shake off the grim recollection. “I will have to get down on my knees and beg their forgiveness, I suppose.”

“It will take more than that assuredly, Uncle,” Theo said with a grin. “At least four new dresses and maybe a full-expenses-paid trip to the Caribbean for both of them.”

The earl sighed dramatically and sipped his champagne, savouring how the bubbly melted on his tongue. “How fortunate that my newest trade venture has been so profitable then!” he replied. “Perhaps I may yet be saved from bankruptcy!”

Suddenly, the young man’s face grew serious. “You know, Uncle Dorian,” Theo began quietly, tugging the other blond to a more secluded and private spot close to an open balcony, “I don’t intend to lecture you and all, God knows I’m not Mother, but don’t you think you should be settling down now?”

Hiding his alarm, Dorian scowled playfully. “My dear, please do not tell me I should get myself a wife! Women are all well and good and I’m sure your Sophie is unparalleled, but I assure you the poor girl would suffer horribly if she joins her fate to mine!”

“No, no, I meant all this gadding about with one man after another. The society pages may not be full of you and your conquests but gossip, you know. I’m worried about you, Uncle Dorian,” Theodore continued on sincerely, “not only is that the road to some godawful disease like AIDS but what will you do when you’re over the hill?”

Dorian’s mouth pinched tightly and straightened up to his full height and breadth. He glowered down at his nephew, losing the foppish queen behaviour momentarily. “Kindly keep your comments to yourself, Theodore! I assure you I’m far from being an old-age pensioner!” So what if he was in his forties?! Dorian Red Gloria was like the best of wines and cheeses---he only got better as he aged!

“But, Uncle Dorian, when you finally retire, what would you have to look forward to? You can’t live like some gypsy, forever following your whims.” Theo’s dark-brown eyes were wide and compassionate. The earl felt like a balloon about to burst, his emotions running amok, and was very glad to hear his nephew’s new wife calling out for him.

“Uncle Dorian, not all of your family’s like Mother or the Dreadful Aunts.” The earl had to quirk a smile at that sobriquet, even though he was feeling the deepest umbrage at that moment towards his tactless relation. ‘The Dreadful Aunts’ referred to his other three sisters, who all shared the same disgust and horror at his lifestyle as did their mother, the late (and unlamented, in Dorian’s case) Countess of Gloria. “We do care for you. At least think about it.” One last hug and the young man was gone, laughingly drawing his wife into a playful waltz.

Dorian felt stultified by the air and his emotions. He replaced his flute with another one before escaping out into the balcony. The Englishman sipped his champagne and wished he could leave, but the reception still had hours to go before they would send the newlyweds off on their honeymoon to the South Americas.

< “But, Uncle Dorian, when you finally retire, what would you have to look forward to?”>

Theodore’s question was like an icy spear straight into his heart. For all of the boy’s clumsiness in attacking the issue, he had a very good point.

Dorian was getting old. Careful diet and exercise had kept his body as limber and athletic as it had been even in his early twenties, but the time was not far off when he would simply not be able to pull off the acrobatics a cat-burglar-cum-NATO-assistant required. Technology was outracing his ability to learn new security systems, and law enforcement techniques were getting more and more sophisticated.

Then there was the undeniable fact that Dorian was getting bored.

As Eroica, he had managed to steal, hoard, sell, and give away more priceless artworks, historical treasures, and government secrets than any other person of his acquaintance. He had six hideaways filled to the brim with pieces that could make curators and collectors expire in envy, and connections both above and underground that was the envy of NATO itself ( straight from Agent G’s mouth, the lovely boy).

But after two decades of practically doing everything he wanted, all had turned to dross in his hands. He could only glory in his collections so often and there were very few modern works that made his larcenous palms itch. Not even NATO missions excited him anymore, what with the death of the hide-and-seek espionage games of the Cold War a year ago. Instead, his beloved Major, now a Colonel with the faithful Z (whose named turned out to be Wolfgang Zimmerman, to Dorian’s surprised delight) as the new Major of the Alphabet Soup, was forced more and more into diplomatic missions with little to no risk. Not even Dorian could wriggle his way into those closed-office meetings, nor did he want to.

And that brought up the topic of Klaus himself. Not for the first time did the image of the grim-faced German dragged him deeper into melancholia. His face grew pinched, the half-empty glass forgotten.

It was hard to believe that the better half of two decades had been spent in the close company of a repressed homosexual who channelled all his clammed-up emotions into a rampaging fury that knew no equal. Many who knew of Dorian’s endless chase had often told him how much of a nutter he was, chasing after a man who would sooner shoot him as kiss him.

The earl could never refute their words completely.

It was true—he was a nutter for falling in love with a complicated man like Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach.

But it was equally true that no one else stirred in him the same inner fire, awakened his blood, and titillated his senses as his beloved Major. The other boys and men he tumbled paled in comparison, easily forgotten once in Klaus’ orbit again. He had told himself time and again that Klaus would succumb sooner or later, that his devotion and passion would be amply rewarded.

The glass made a soft thudding sound as it hit the stone railing. Recalling it suddenly, Dorian followed his nephew’s example and downed the remains swiftly, letting the alcohol warm him. He placed the emptied flute on the railing beside him and leaned forward, looking down at the professionally-tended gardens.

Maybe he had been wrong all those years ago, he thought to himself. Maybe Klaus simply did not want him as a lover. It didn’t matter if the man was repressed or not---desire simply cannot be forced.

After all, with the Cold War over, there was no need for Klaus’s discretion any more, if that had been what had stopped the man from returning Dorian’s overtures. His Klaus did not belong in some stuffy office, compiling paperwork and sending others into the field. No, his beloved was most alive /out/ in the field, where his pounding heartbeat mimicked gunfire and each second equalled lives.

Klaus, if he wanted to, could retire. And Dorian could come to him.

But the last time he had heard from Klaus was eight months ago. A simple message to his flat in London and it had come from a polite, cultured voice that was definitely not his beloved.

< “This message is for Lord Gloria. Compliments from Colonel von dem Eberbach on your well-executed help in previous NATO missions. We are glad to inform you though, that as the Cold War is now over, your services will no longer be required. The Colonel gives his regards and hopes that your new ventures will go well.”>

Bonham and James had been distraught when they came to the flat the next morning and found their lord in the midst of the total wreckage of the living room, arms livid with blood from glass and wood shards. Fortunately for the Major, or Colonel as he was now, Dorian had destroyed the tape in his rage and his team never knew the exact source for his unnatural tantrum, though they had their suspicions. After that, the earl had been coddled endlessly.

He had had to put his foot down so that none of his men followed him into the wedding. Maybe his family could distract him from the heartache that gutted him constantly.

He should have known better.

When the sob tore its way up and out his throat, Dorian was shocked out of his bleak thoughts. He started as he realized that his vision was blurry and that his chest had grown so tight that it was excruciating.

Dorian realized he was about to commit a grand faux-pas by breaking down in the midst of one of the social events of the year and made a quick decision. Thankful that he had chosen a comfortable black tailcoat (subdued and grim to match his recent moods), he vaulted off the balcony and shimmied down the stone walls. The balcony he had been in faced the back gardens, which saved him and his vibrantly gold hair from inadvertent scrutiny by the security detail.

He quickly picked up his coat and keys from the lobby, excusing his windblown appearance as a solo jaunt from the gardens to the curious staff, before hurrying to his apple-red Maserati.

All Dorian wanted was to hide in his flat in London and have a good cry. Sod the whiskey.

In his distracted state, he failed to notice the dangerously weaving van at the side road in time.

XXXX

In Bonn, one Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach was attending another gathering, much to his impatient discontent. He had better things to do now than politely chatter with brainless socialites and their marriage-minded mothers. If it hadn’t been for his father…

The German nodded to acquaintances as he made his way to his study, hoping a quick cigarette would lighten his moods. After all, in two days he would be flying to London, chasing down a criminal with golden hair and blue eyes.

The damned queer should be glad he finally won the war. Iron Klaus had given over, had surrendered at last.

His study was a large, well-appointed room done in rich chestnut hues. There was the bay window behind his enormous mahogany desk, overlooking Schloss Eberbach’s orchards. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with books on genealogies, histories, philosophies, military operations, and even a few on art. Globes and maps spread out on the far side, a collection that had grown as he added different ones for his work in NATO.

It was a comfortable room, neatly-kept and no-nonsense, well-suited to his personality. It had been his father’s before him.

Klaus had finally accepted that there no son of his would inherit it. Not unless Gloria persuaded him to do one of those ridiculous and experimental surrogate techniques.

But that was for later. First, he had to find the thief and…and well, confess.

He marched over to the thickly-padded leather chair and sank into it. Already the accumulated stress of having to be polite and make small talk for hours was dissipating as he relaxed into its warm, familiar depths. Putting his feet up on the desk, he lit a cigarette and took a bracing drag. As he blew out the smoke, he thought back to when he finally admitted to himself that he was in love with that damned fop and there was nothing that would change it.

Surprisingly, it had all been his father’s fault.

Six months before, Friedrich Hadrian von dem Eberbach marched into this very study to begin his annual speech on how his son needed to retire, get married, and sire an heir, in that order. Klaus had refused to consider retirement until he was engaged. His father had stared at him and snapped, “Well, snap to it and get engaged! Unless you would prefer me to do the work for you?”

Klaus had drawn himself up and returned a level glare. “I can do my own hunting, Father, thank you.”

And he did.

For the next three months, Klaus re-insinuated himself into Germany’s upper circles with all the concentration required of a field mission. He was gleefully introduced to the latest beauties, most of whom were charmed by his good looks and background.

Unfortunately, while getting a girl on his elbow was one thing, keeping her was another.

A parade of socialites came and went in his life in that time. They all seemed to find one thing or another about him unsatisfactory: he smoked too much, he was unadventurous (both in and out of bed one disgraceful woman had told him bluntly, to his ear-burning shame), he didn’t know how to wear anything other than a suit or a uniform, he didn’t smile enough, he was boring, and on and on it went.

Klaus, for his part, found them just as unbearable. He hated being clogged up by the unsubtle fragrances they wrapped themselves in. He despised the mindless conversation about who was sleeping with who, which designer was currently /incomparable/, which place had the best parties, etc. He especially detested sleeping with them, the way they were all so much more experienced than he was and the way they expected far more than he could give. Somehow, in the company of debauched socialites, he became an unsophisticated clown and Klaus loathed the feeling.

Three months of that and Klaus decided to go for a different kettle of fish. He looked for a gentler sort of female, not as beautiful but more intelligent and companionable, and found that they weren’t what he was looking for either. They were either overly intimidated by his manner or his background, had their own baggage from recent divorces and/or relationships, or were uninterested in becoming the new chatelaine, the Schloss besitzer of Schloss Eberbach.

His father had confronted him seven weeks before. “Klaus, what is this about you becoming Bonn’s newest playboy? You are supposed to be trying to find a wife, not playing around with women!”

“I was trying to find a wife, Father,” Klaus bit off, frustrated and angry at the interruption of his breakfast. It didn’t help that he had just been politely kicked off the bed of yet another woman the previous night, who claimed that she still had ‘issues’with her ex-husband and didn’t even want to think about another serious relationship. He resisted the childish urge to throw the paper down on the floor in a fit of pique; instead he closed it with loud, snapping sounds and laid it beside his untouched meal. “Unfortunately, many of the younger women of our circles find me too boring and unadventurous. And I find them to be a disgrace to Germany, absolutely brainless and more interested in exchanging bed partners or in their careers than in marrying and having children! University educations wasted on paper!” He growled and stabbed at an innocuous piece of sausage viciously.

His father sighed and sat down heavily on the chair beside him. Klaus looked up and found himself studying his sire closely for the first time in years. They both shared the same thick head of black hair, though his father’s had now turned into steel-gray while Klaus only had silvered temples, and the trademark slate-green eyes. The elder’s face was more lined and the younger saw the fatigue, despair, and confusion. They stared at each other for long, quiet moments.

“Tell me about this Eroica of yours,” his father said suddenly.

Klaus’s hand jerked, catching against his cup of coffee. It spilled all over the table and he leapt out of his chair, yelling for the servants to come and clean it up. He took the opportunity to recover his equilibrium as a maid efficiently wiped up and removed the mess. A headshake refuted any more breakfasts.

He turned to his sire as he sat back down, back rigid. “Eroica is a thief and a nuisance. I’ll never see him again unless I’m unfortunate now that the Cold War is over. Why bring him up?” Klaus was absently proud of how steady his hands were as he lit a cigarette. He had the feeling he needed all the help he could get for this conversation.

“There have been rumours for years about you and him. Were you lovers?”

Klaus coughed violently, aghast at his elder’s blunt words. “Of course not!” he roared in shock. “I’m nothing like that damned degenerate!” He glowered at his father and then down at the empty table. Now he wished he had asked for another plate—if his mouth was full, he had excuses not to participate in this cozy, breakfast tête-à-tête.

“I have always been curious about this man,” his father continued in an even tone, “there are many conflicting reports on him. He’s a fop. He’s a nuisance. He’s a danger to operations. He’s brilliant. He’s beautiful. He’s NATO’s best agent, aside from you of course. He’s your unofficial partner. He’s your whipping boy. He’s insane. He’s in love with you.”

The younger blanched at the last. His throat worked but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Somehow, you, my son, have so managed to ensnare this young man that for the past twenty years he has chased you all over the globe, fought your battles with you, and saved your life and your mens’ countless times at risk of his own.” Klaus could feel himself turning red---though from anger or shame, he couldn’t tell. “You have apparently yelled at him and hit him on many occasions, yet he never turned away from you.”

“He is insane,” Klaus ground out, crushing his cigarette into an ashtray. He couldn’t look his father in the eye. “I never asked him to follow me around or to love me. I made it clear I wasn’t interested but he never listened. Damned idiot.”

His father heaved a deep sigh. When Klaus cast his eyes upon him again, the man appeared more aged, if it were possible in such a short time. He stood up in alarm. “Look, Father, you must be tired,” he began.

“Klaus, sit down and listen to me.”

Klaus did. Apparently, the voice of command could never be unlearned.

“So, you have slept with half of Germany’s eligible women and not only do you not suit them, but they don’t suit you.”

“Hardly half,” Klaus muttered, flushing again. How did his father make a grown man of forty-five feel like a teenager caught with his pants down?

“I would advise you to perhaps look beyond Germany’s boundaries for a suitable wife but I don’t think it would help,” his father continued, ignoring him. “It is now clear to me that your English fop has spoiled you for any other, man or woman.”

“What?!” Klaus roared once more, slamming his fists down on the table. He stood up and glared down at his elder. “That damned pervert has nothing to do with it! With this!”

“You are as much in love with him as he is said to be with you,” was the returning salvo launched in a cool, factual tone. Klaus flinched. “Before you destroy that heirloom table with your denials, I will tell you now, Klaus, that what I’m saying is the absolute truth.”

“You are my father, not a damned psychiatrist! How do you know how I feel?!”

“Your superiors have noted that you have worked with considerably less enthusiasm and efficiency at your new post. You are twice as prone to viciously tongue-lashing your subordinates and six aides have burned out in the time that you have been promoted from Lt. Colonel. You associate with no one, not your coworkers or others. And now you are sleeping around trying to find something that no person other than your Englishman could give you.” Klaus clenched his fists and ground his teeth, infuriated at this dissection of his life.

“Klaus, you may deny it to me and even to yourself but it is clear to all eyes where your true heart lies. And, God forgive me, I can’t hold it against you. This English earl has loved you so completely for twenty years, at your best and at your worst, that you can no longer be satisfied with less and if your mother had even loved me with half the devotion this man has poured on you, our marriage would have been a far happier thing.” The cool tone was gone and raw emotion laced his father’s voice.

The older man stood up and they faced each other. Klaus was breathing heavily, mind racing, but speechless. His father only pivoted on his heels and walked away.

Leaving Klaus to indulge in a two-week-long binge of alcohol and rage as he wrestled with angels and demons.

The end of it found him in his bedroom on the break of dawn, stone-cold sober and clear-headed for the first time in days.

Klaus had stared at the purpling horizon and thought: that damned fop would love sunrises.

The shrill ring of the phone jolted him from his memories. He dropped his feet onto the rug and reached out for the receiver. “Eberbach.” His knuckles turned white as he listened. “Where is he being held? How is he? And the bastard who did it?” he snapped out in rapid German, his tone belying the dreadful expression and pallor of his face.

“I see. Good work. Yes, I’ll be heading there soon. Tonight if I can get a flight, tomorrow at the latest. Yes, let them know that I’m taking emergency leave. Don’t dammit let them know why! Tell them it’s a family emergency! I’ll deal with them when I come back!” He disconnected and instantly dialled the airport.

His father walked in as he concluded arrangements for a red-eye flight to London. The elder Eberbach had been staying at Schloss Eberbach for the past two weeks and Klaus had surprisingly good discussions about Dorian and his situation with him. His sire still had a slightly pinched expression at the mention of the earl, but it was clear that he had made up his mind to support his son in his decision. “Klaus, this is your last house party. Your Englishman can wait but your guests can’t,”he chided with a heavy frown.

Klaus took a deep breath, carefully laying the receiver back onto its cradle. He met his father’s stern gaze. “Gloria has had an accident. I’m leaving tonight to go to him.”

The elder Eberbach closed his eyes. “So be it then. Bring this man to me when he is well. I would like to meet him.”

“I will, Father.” Klaus strode towards the doorway but stopped abreast of his sire. “Thank you, Father,” he said softly before walking off.

He was at Dorian’s room in a London hospital as soon as visiting hours allowed the next day. Klaus found himself stockstill at the doorway, shocked to the bone to see the effervescent and beautiful man a bandaged wreck. His golden curls had been braided into a heavy rope to aid the surgeons in dealing with a hairline fracture in his skull. Klaus had been informed that they had had to shave a portion of his scalp for the surgery. On top of that, Dorian had suffered from whiplash, bruised ribs, and cuts all over his face, neck, and chest from when the windshield broke into pieces. The most dangerous had been a sliver of glass as large as a man’s hand which had narrowly missed the Englishman’s jugular. Klaus had nearly broken into a cold sweat when he read the incident report and learned just how close Dorian had been to death. It was a miracle that the other man hadn’t suffered more serious injuries in the near head-on collision. Gloria had been able to turn the wheel to so the drunk driver had crashed against the passenger side; the impact had destroyed the windshield and neatly crumpled half of the Maserati. The drunk driver had survived unscathed and the Colonel looked forward to his imminent destruction.

Klaus sat down at Dorian's bedside and took up the earl’s hand. It was frighteningly pale and cold in his. He held it tightly.

It was noon when someone knocked on the door. A bevy of well-dressed blondes faced Klaus, who frowned at them grimly.

“Who the hell are you?” a tall, young man demanded with a frown, coming to stand closer to the German. A pretty blonde came forward as well, attached at his elbow.

“I’m Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach, a friend of the earl’s,” he replied harshly. “Who are you?”

“I’m Theodore and the earl’s my uncle. We’re all his nieces and nephews,” the younger man explained, still frowning. His dark eyes were thoughtful as he studied Klaus. “Oh, this is my wife, Sophie. We were at the reception when the hospital called to let us know about Uncle Dorian’s accident. We came as soon as they would let us. Is he alright?” He tried to peer around Klaus’ considerable bulk and what he saw made him pale.

“He’s fine, minor injuries only,” the German said brusquely and stood aside to let them in. He stared coolly at them, trying to ignore the assessing way the young women looked at him or the challenging glances of their male cousins.

Klaus kept quiet as the gang of blonds fussed over the patient. Dorian woke up half-way through their visit and had evinced a truly delighted expression. Their eyes met several times, but neither said anything to acknowledge the other.

Finally, the troupe marched off, leaving only Theodore and Sophie behind. Klaus learned quickly that the two had just been married and it was their reception that had been disrupted. He felt vaguely warmer towards them upon realizing how easily they dropped everything for Dorian, but that wishy-washy emotion left as soon as Theodore opened his mouth.

“Uncle, who is this man? Is he the one who caused the accident?” the younger man demanded, eyes darting between the two. Klaus had been subject to several questioning stares but had refused to justify his presence.

“No, no, Theo, the Colonel wouldn’t hurt me,” Dorian assured his nephew. “He is simply visiting me.”

“Are you seeing him now? Maria hadn’t mentioned you were seeing someone other than that Italian artist.” Klaus could feel his blood heating at the mention of Dorian’s other men, and his gaze turned arctic. The young woman blanched and tugged at her husband’s hand. Theo protectively shielded her from his wrath.

“No, Theo, love, it’s nothing like that. Actually, the Colonel and I have a bit to talk about. If you would be so good, dearest ones…” Even flat on his back, Dorian could still give commands like the best of them. Like silk over steel. Klaus watched with a detached amusement as the two finally retreated after assuring the earl they would be back for one last visit before they left that night for their delayed honeymoon.

Now Klaus was finally alone with Dorian. Suddenly, the private room seemed to grow and shrink at the same time. ‘It was odd what emotions can do to perceptions,’ he thought absentmindedly.

“Colonel, what are you doing here? The last I heard from you, your aide left a message saying NATO no longer had uses for a thief like me,” Dorian’s words were live edges, his expression cold and unwelcoming. Klaus found himself suddenly speechless---the earl had never looked at him that way before.

“Well?” The Englishman snapped.

He started and averted his eyes. “I was informed by my aide that you had an accident. I thought to see if you were well.” Klaus had half-expected the other man to have him as ‘next-of-kin’ in the hospital records; he had felt emptier when he realized that if he hadn’t had Schmitt keeping tabs on the other man, he would never have learned about Dorian’s accident until someone decided to let him know. A chill wrapped around him at the idea that, if things had turned tragic, he may have never known the other man had died until months after the funeral.

“Well, I don’t know the official diagnosis,” the earl drawled, wincing as he shifted. Klaus came forward and efficiently helped him to a more comfortable, half-reclining position. He found himself amused that Dorian needed to erase the psychological disadvantage of lying down and having to stare up into his eyes. He wondered idly whether having to stare up would really be a psychological disadvantage in...other...circumstances. “But since I can wriggle my toes and fingers, I would venture to say that I am ‘well’. Would be even better after some plastic surgery, I would imagine. So, Colonel von dem Eberbach, your duty is done and you may now leave.”

Klaus stayed by him, staring down into that ravaged face so closed from him. Never had Dorian been so standoffish to him; the other man had always welcomed him with a naughty smile or a warm affection. Not this expressionless impassivity that had been Klaus’ own mask.

“No,” he said simply, reaching out to touch the side of Dorian’s head. “I won’t leave.”

Blue eyes snapped to green. The earl took a deep, shuddering breath. “Klaus, no more games,” he whispered. “You either stay or you go. You know what I will assume if you stay.”

“What?” Klaus asked, curious. He couldn’t stop fingering one errant curl, knuckles brushing against silk-soft skin.

“That you care about an old queer like me, of course.” Dorian laughed, wildly, harshly. There was a shimmer around those pained blue eyes. “That after all of this, you have finally realized that you love me and come to stay by my side.” ‘A fine joke,’ his sneering face said.

“Then I will stay.”

“Klaus, damn you, don’t do this to me! Not right now!” Dorian half-screamed, half-growled. He tried to lever himself up, ignoring his condition and the tubes attached to him.

“Hush,” Klaus ordered, alarmed. He held the earl’s shoulders, trying to stop him from wriggling. “Stop it, you idiot, you’ll injure yourself worse! Listen to me, you damned fop!”

“There’s the Major I know and love so well,” Dorian said in a hysterical tone, still struggling. “Get your hands off the queer, Colonel, before I turn you into a queer yourself!”

Klaus realized that Dorian, for some reason, would not see sense until he did something drastic. With a low growl, he swooped down and, cradling Dorian’s skull carefully, kissed the other man.

It was only a momentary hard press of mouth against mouth but the earl subsided instantly. Klaus, flushing as he straightened, looked to see the Englishman staring at him in complete shock.

“Hush,” he commanded, clamping a hand onto that mouth. “You will listen to me, Gloria.” The earl nodded blankly, eyes enormous in his pale face.

“I didn’t realize it until my father pointed it out to me but you grew on me, you English degenerate,” he continued heavily, “This past year has been dullest I’ve had. It’s all paperwork or negotiations, and you know I’d rather shoot the lot of them than talk to them for hours. But I made myself busy and my father demanded I get married and have children.”

Dorian’s face froze at the mention of marriage and children.

“I tried. Mein Gott, I tried to find a wife but…” He looked away. “My father had to talk sense into me.”

A hand came up to clasp his own tightly.

“I was already planning on coming to London in a day. To, to look for you. Then last night I got a call that you were in an accident, that some drunken Wichser ran you over, and…and my blood ran cold at the idea that you might have died and…and I was too late.” He pulled both their hands off the earl’s mouth. Dorian, face alit with an inner glow that belied his condition, entwined his hand with the Colonel’s and brought it to his mouth in a soft kiss.

“You, my beloved Major, have impeccable timing. Never doubt that.” Eroica’s eyes glimmered. “I love you.”

It was Klaus’ turn to bring Dorian’s hand to his mouth before bending over and capturing his lips again. “I know,” he whispered against that soft, supple flesh, “God forgive me, I love you too.”

-FINI-

Now I have to buckle down and do homework. *sighs heavily*