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leftenantmackgordon · 2 years

Text

Wings Over My Heart - Pt. I

A 1936 Things to Come film AU Gordon x Audebert (x Horstmayer)

Series Main List

Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (including m/m anal sex), dystopian re-imagining of WWI and aftermath, no need to have seen film

Word Count: 1.5k

Pt. I -

“Permission to land on Runway 3-2-7. Maintain your present course.”

Gordon held position, adjusting the stick as he sighted the runway. “Copy, 3-2-7.”

“Welcome back, Major Gordon.”

Even ten years later, the surreal moments still strike him. How he had found hope just when the world seemed lost. How he’d been pulled from a muddy trench, cleaned up, and trained as an aviator. How a group of men had preserved with a peaceful vision for the future after decades of endless warfare and brutality.

No one ever imagined that war would rage in the ceaseless destruction of humanity from 1914 to 1940, but here the world is. Gordon knows nothing but a world of constant war, and while he has vague memories of life in the World-That-Was back in his younger years, they pale in comparison to life as he now knows it.

He angles the nose of his airplane as he makes his final approach and descent for landing. His wheels touch down on the pavement, and the brakes slow his forward momentum. Following the guiding lights, he pilots his craft to the waiting hangar and ground crew. Small fingers of sunlight rise in the eastern sky as he kills the engine and unstraps his harness. Stepping out of his black, streamlined aircraft, he pulls off his helmet.

“Good morning, major.” The crew chief greets him. “Another good patrol?”

“Quite encouraging.” Gordon confirms. “Our efforts on the Italian peninsula appear to be taking hold, and if the council agrees with the squadron’s report, then we’re ready to scout the regions northward.”

“Very encouraging indeed, sir.” The chief nods at Gordon before looking up at the airplane. “Any issues with the machine?”

“None at all. Your men do a fine job.”

“Well, it’s a fine design.”

Gordon feels his mouth pull to a small smile. “Everything here is.” He nods in farewell before he turns to fall in line with the rest of his squadron mates. Fatigue tugs at the corners of his mind, but he needs to file his report. Progress of rebuilding the world doesn’t stop in the face of one’s exhaustion, and Gordon knows that while he sleeps, another squadron will take to the skies.

Camille’s squadron, in fact.

The thought of his beloved sustains him through the post-scouting-mission debrief. As he finally trudges down the brightly lit corridor towards their shared quarters, he can’t help but wonder if Camille’s squadron will use the intelligence gathered during his patrol to implement next steps.

With a press of his hand to scan his fingerprints, the door opens and his eyes adjust to the darkened interior. Artificial light may keep the main interior of their complex lit to support the 24/7 efforts of societal restoration, but it’s 0534 in the morning, and Camille still sleeps.

Gordon sheds his sharp, all-black flight uniform before stepping into the hydrosonic shower. At first, his arrival here had been such a shock. While the rest of the world devolved into violence and barbarism, here was a society with scientific purpose united by a determination to improve man’s fate instead of destroy it. The innovations at the Basra headquarters proved endlessly captivating - from the new fleets of airplanes to non-metallic construction materials to clean energy generation - even stretching so far as to break down previously-conceived cultural norms. It’s what allows him to live freely with Camille at his side for the rest of his days.

The vibrating water cleans the sweat and petrol fumes from his skin before he reaches for a towel. After stepping into soft shorts and brushing his teeth, he’s careful to turn the light off before opening the door back to the bedroom. Despite the sweltering heat of Basra, the conditioned air keeps their quarters more than comfortable, and he never takes issue when curling up next to Camille.

The Frenchman’s hair is soft and mussed from sleep as Gordon breathes him in. He presses gentle kisses along Camille’s nape as he drapes an arm around the younger man’s shirtless midsection.

Camille sighs in drowsy contentment as his fingers interlace with Gordon’s beneath the covers. “Good scouting mission, mon amour?”

Gordon hums sleepily as he relaxes against the soft mattress. “You should still be asleep, love.”

Camille chuckles low in his throat. “I never sleep soundly when you’re away.”

“Good thing my squadron is only on this rotation for another six days.”

Camille groans in frustration as he rolls in Gordon’s arms, and Gordon lays back against the bed to welcome the taller man nuzzling kisses into his neck. A sleepy smile tugs at Gordon’s mouth. Despite all that they see and do, despite all the talk of forward progress, these quiet moments with Camille are his favorite time of day. Here, they don’t have to be Major Gordon and Commandant Audebert. Here, they’re just Mackenzie and Camille.

He nuzzles Camille’s brow and basks in the comforting weight of his beloved. “You should sleep, love.” He says softly. “You only have an hour until you need to prepare for your rotation.”

“I know,” Camille confirms.

“Do you know where your squadron is headed?”

“North, last I heard. Continuing to establish contact in regions of former Germany.”

Gordon hums gently. “Slowly but surely, expanding the New Rule of the Airmen.”

“And a New Life for Mankind.” Camille finishes the motto, drifting more kisses along the column of Gordon’s neck. “A new life that I found here with you. A new life that we share together.”

Gordon ducks his head to meet Camille’s kiss. It’s everything he ever wants as they linger in the intimate contact, basking in the reassuring touch of each other’s lips. Gordon lets his jaw relax as Camille leans into the kiss, and their tongues meet. Heat licks down Gordon’s spine as his cock hardens, groaning when Camille’s hand finds him over the fabric of his shorts.

He rolls his hips to chase Camille’s touch, stirring a delicious moan from the Frechman. Gordon smiles into the kiss as Camille shifts to lay atop him, grinding their burgeoning erections together. The perfect friction shoots sparks through Gordon’s veins as he arches up into the taller man. “God, Cami….” His hand settles to Camille’s hip to hold him so close.

Camille rocks his hips again with a shuddering exhale against Gordon’s lips. “I know you’re tired, mon amour. But I’ve had more than enough rest.”

Any other words are downed by the firm intensity of Gordon’s kiss as they lose themselves in rising pleasure. Shifting his weight to brace on a forearm, Camille lifts just enough to slide his shorts down and work at Gordon’s. The bare length of their cocks brush together, and Gordon hisses through his teeth and tightens his grip on Camille’s hip. It’s been too long since they last took a moment for themselves, and he already feels on the edge of combustion, not helped by his exhaustion.

It certainly doesn’t help when Camille shifts his hips and takes Gordon in hand before surprisingly, easily welcoming him into his body. Gordon's mind spins, dizzy with rushing pleasure when he realizes the loose, slick stretch of Camille’s muscle meant that the younger man had already prepared for this moment. With a pleasured cry, Gordon’s head falls back against the pillow, and he loses himself in the enveloping heat of Camille’s body.

Camille groans, low and debauched, as he lifts up before sinking back down. “I’ve got you, mon amour. Let go for me.”

Gordon groans as he meets Camille’s thrusts, delighting in his soft gasps. “Fuck, Cami….”

Camille whimpers, chasing his pleasure as Gordon’s cock fills him over and over. They push and pull at all the skin they can reach as they move together, never wanting to let the other go. Their burning connection feels like heaven as they crest the peak, Camille’s release splashing hot on Gordon’s belly while his own seed plants deep inside his lover.

Heedless of the mess, Camille slumps forward to meet Gordon in a sated, languid kiss. Neither of them wants to rise, content to stay in this breathless, euphoric moment as they drift on the edge of bliss. Gordon cradles Camille close, brushing kisses along his brow as he sighs with bone-deep satisfaction. “You’re going to be the death of me someday, you know.” He whispers. “Surprising me like that. Bloody hell, Cami.” He pauses to press a lingering kiss. “Just the thought of you in our bed, stretching yourself for me… makes me wish I were ten years younger.”

Camille chuckles gently. “Neither of us are as young as we used to be. And ten years ago… none of this would have been here, and I wouldn’t have met you.”

Gordon’s arms tighten around Camille’s back to hold him closer. “I like to think that - somehow, somewhere - we still would have found each other.”

The younger man smiles against Gordon’s skin as he brushes a lazy kiss. “That is indeed a nice thought. And a perfect way to start the day.”

“A perfect way to fall asleep, you mean.” Gordon draws him up for a kiss as his eyelids grow heavy. “I look forward to having more time in six days from now.”

Camille’s eyes sparkle in the low light as his smile grows. “Me too, mon amour.” He lingers in one last gentle, affirming kiss. “Pleasant dreams, and I’ll be here when you wake.”

#joyeux noël 2005 #joyeux noël #lieutenant horstmayer #lieutenant gordon #lieutenant audebert #horstmayer #gordon #audebert #karl friedrich horstmayer #mackenzie joseph gordon #camille rené audebert

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leftenantmackgordon · 2 years

Text

Wings Over My Heart - Pt. V

A 1936 Things to Come film AU Gordon x Audebert (x Horstmayer)

Series Main List

Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (including m/m anal sex), references to healing after torture, dystopian re-imagining of WWI and aftermath, no need to have seen film

Word Count: 3.9k

Pt. V -

Even now, the memories curdle Gordon’s stomach.

Finding Camille in that chamber of horrors. Seeing his hands compressed nearly to the breaking point. Freeing the naked, flogged man from the rack and supporting his weakened weight.

Gordon braces a hand against the shower wall, wincing.

“Major Gordon?”

He turned from the wheeled stretchers, dreading what duty demands of him. “Yes?”

“They’re starting to wake up, Major.”

With a reluctant nod, he turned back around to give the two prone men a parting glance.

Medical team members swarmed both Camille and Karl - or so Camille called him - tending their wounds and easing their pain. They both appeared to rest comfortably, and the anxious knot in Gordon’s stomach lessened somewhat.

Camille was still alive. Gordon wasn’t too late.

He forced a hard swallow, making his feet move against the stone floor. He had a job to do, after all.

Harsh morning light showed the town’s ruins for what they were - a former shade of a bygone age, a ruin of humanity’s folly. The central square - or at least as central as Gordon could figure - must have been a popular social center judging by the number of unconscious people strewn about. Fellow black-clad aviators moved among the resting people and helped those who began to wake up after the sleeping gas wore off.

Of course, Gordon remembered the terror that gas bombs brought to the war. Deadly clouds of smoke that seared and choked its victims to grotesque deaths. He also rememered his own trepidation when Wings Over the World first dropped their gas bombs on his regiment. How his men had fled for their very lives - how he had thought it was the end as the gas filled his nose and his eyelids grew heavy. But when he awoke with nothing more than a headache to find an outstretched helping hand, Gordon had never looked back.

He stood on the stoop of the crumbled Town Hall, surveying the scene. Everything looked in order, and a sense of satisfaction suffused him. Another step taken, another new beginning of progress. Now, to start organizing, to start rebuilding -

“Major Gordon!”

He turned at the panicked call, stepping over to a fellow aviator - Ponchel - who crouched low over a slumped body. “What is it?”

“This one’s dead, sir.” Ponchel

pushed to his feet with a confused look. “But… he shouldn’t have died, sir. It was only sleeping gas.”

Gordon stared down at the man in question. He was dressed with an unmistakable air of authority, a cloak or perhaps a greatcoat draped across his shoulders. The condition of his clothing belied his status as a leader despite his lifeless sprawl on a pile of rubble at the bottom of a crudely etched sign. Gordon’s gaze drifted up, taking in the rough, chalky scrawl.

SOVEREIGN STATE BULLETIN JUNE 1940

OUR OPERATION AGAINST THE HILL STATE HAS BEEN SUCCESSFUL.

FURTHER HOSTILITIES WILL BRING A VICTORIOUS PEACE.

LONG LIVE THE COMMANDER!

Gordon glanced back down at the man, bile rising in his throat. Was this the man responsible for the torture chamber? Had this man’s command kept Camille away from him for the last three days? Gordon’s hand clenched at his side. He didn’t consider himself a man of violent delights, but a thrill of satisfaction ran through him nonetheless.

Ponchel shook his head, looking between the rough sign and the dead man at their feet. “I don’t understand it, sir.” He glanced out at the large crowd of people waking up to the new world unfolding around them. “This one… this man shouldn’t be dead.”

“But he is.” Gordon said gently, looking up with a sigh and squinting in the bright light. “Dead, and his world dead with him. And now?” Gordon looked over at Ponchel with a small smile. “And now for the New Rule of the Airmen.”

Ponchel matched his smile as he nodded. “And a New Life for Mankind.”

Gordon blinks back to himself in the confines of the shower. Hydrosonic swirls float around him, and he really should be more mindful of wasting the water… but his head spins far too much.

For six weeks now, he’s had Camille back in his life. Six weeks after 72 hours of absolute hell in his absence. Objectively, he knew the mission parameters for search-and-rescue parties, but he never thought that he would have to actually experience the 72 hour wait period. Let alone find his love the victim of torture and hear that gut-wrenching, passionate plea in Camille’s voice to tend to the room’s other occupant.

“I… I came by your room the other day.” Gordon started softly, shifting awkwardly against the stiff medical ward chair. Three weeks had passed and Gordon distantly wondered why they couldn’t have placed a more comfortable chair at Camille’s bedside.

Camille turned his head against the pillow, lifting the corner of his mouth in a curious smile. “Yes?”

Anxious butterflies sprung to life in Gordon’s chest. By some miracle, Camille’s hands hadn’t required surgery, nor were they damaged enough to jeopardize his position as an aviator - but still the medical team kept him sequestered in the ward. Gordon suspected it was largely to keep him from overexerting the nearly-ruined joints, but he could tell that Camille didn’t mind the captivity too much. He recognized the heartfelt gleam in his lover’s eyes all too well.

Gordon swallowed hard. “I came by your room, and you weren’t… here. The attendant said you were with Karl.”

Camille nodded slowly. “Yes, I was. He was hurt so much worse than I was. It hasn’t been an easy road to recovery for him.”

Gordon nodded, hating the jealousy that roiled his stomach. “I just… I missed you, that's all.”

“Oh, mon amour.” Camille reaches a gauzy bandaged hand over to rest lightly atop Gordon’s. “I’m here now. And you won’t lose me like that again.”

Gordon’s heart clenches. Camille has no business making empty promises like that. As long as they both work in World Communications, scouting the globe is their duty and mission. Each mission brings risk, and Gordon recognizes how many times that Camille could have been lost to him forever. But fate brought them back together… and fate dumped Karl Horstmayer right in the middle.

Gordon isn’t a fool. He’s watched Camille interact with the younger man, placing a bandaged hand on an uninjured area of Horstmayer’s shoulder as he lays face down with stitches, grafts, and bandages criss-crossing his back. He’s watched Camille engage in close conversation despite Horstmayer’s otherwise empty room, his face soft with an achingly familiar smile.

A smile that he hoped Camille only reserved for him. A smile that speaks to tender affection and care. A smile that threatens to rip Gordon’s heart from his chest each time he sees it directed at the younger man.

“Are you alright?” Camille’s voice shook him from his thoughts. “You seem unusually tense today.”

With a tight smile, Gordon tried to relax his posture as he stood next to Camille’s medical bed. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Camille sighed with humored exasperation. “Once they release me from here, I look forward to not having to answer that question at every shift changeover.” His eyes roamed over Gordon in careful study. “But something is bothering you, mon amour.”

Gordon took a measured breath, careful to keep his face from betraying too much. Mercifully, his commanding officers haven’t sent him away on many missions during Camille’s convalescence. Perhaps they recognized the healing power in a life partner’s presence, or perhaps they just took pity on his harrowed state. In either case, the idle time didn’t help distract Gordon from what was unfolding in the medical ward. Nor was the medical ward the appropriate place for this conversation. Instead, he summoned a small smile. “I’m just tired of seeing you here. I want you back… in our bed with me.”

Camille’s face softened with a smile that broke Gordon’s heart. “I want that, too. So very much.” He raised his right hand, curling his fingers to ball in a loose fist. “The doctors are very pleased with that range of motion. According to them, after another week of intensive therapy, I should be cleared for release.”

“And Karl?” The words left Gordon’s lips before he could stop them.

If Camille suspected anything about them, nothing on his face changed. “I think it will be another week or two until he is released. The grafts have been more complicated than expected, according to him.” His face tightened with concern. “The Commander’s whip left indelible scars that will haunt Karl for the rest of this life.”

The tender heartache on Camille’s words didn’t go unnoticed, and Gordon’s stomach rots with heartache of his own. Slowly, he nodded. “I… can’t imagine.”

Camille shook his head with a gentle sigh. “He has no one, Mack. Sounds like he hasn’t in so long… and, of course, he knows no one here.”

“No one aside from you.”

Camille glanced up at him, brow furrowing. “That’s how it was when you found me…” the corner of his mouth lifted with fond, wistful remembrance. “I spent weeks in this ward and you were my only visitor.”

Despite Camille’s injuries from the battlefield, Gordon remembered those days better than any other. Discovering the mutual interest, exploring the spark between them, letting their affection grow into love.

Camille blinked away from Gordon to gaze down at his bed covers, his face distant and perhaps even… conflicted. “It’s the same for Karl, now,” Camille said softly. “I’m… I’m all that he has.”

Gordon balls his hand against the shower wall, thumping it against the hard plastic as tears sting his eyes. He’s not foolish to miss the signs of blossoming love, but perhaps he was foolish to think that he could keep Camille all to himself. Camille is several years younger than him, so why shouldn’t he want someone closer to his own age? Why wouldn’t Camille grow to want the one man who was there for him when mission parameters dictated Gordon’s absence? Why should Gordon have deluded himself into thinking that any relationship stability could exist in such an unstable world?

A tear mixes with the shower water, and Gordon pushes off the wall. Society doesn’t need to suffer a water shortage because of his despondent thoughts. He exhales a deep sigh to expel the tension in his chest and it brings marginal relief as he reaches for the shampoo. Closing his eyes, he massages the product into his hair and tilts his head back. Through the water sluicing over his head, he doesn’t hear the bathroom door slide open. But when he opens his eyes, he does see Camille’s familiar figure standing on the other side of the see-through, glass door.

His hands are bandage free, and he wears a simple base uniform. It’s the first time that Gordon has seen Camille out of hospital-issued garments since his return, and even though the clothes hang oversized on his frame, Camille has never looked better. He stares back at Gordon as if he’s never seen anything more lovely, his chocolate eyes darkening with a desire that stirs answering heat in Gordon’s belly.

With the conviction of a finalized decision, Camille reaches for the hem of his tunic and strips it overhead. His trousers follow with equally swift motions, and Gordon’s mouth goes dry when Camille reaches for the shower door. His heart pounds, love and heartbreak conflicting in his chest, as the shower spray dampens Camille’s skin and those brown eyes blow wide to hold him like a spell. Camille brings his hands up to cradle Gordon’s jaw, drawing a shudder from him as he leans into the comforting touch.

When Camille leans in to press his mouth to Gordon’s, he forgets how to breathe. A missing piece of his life slots back into place as they re-learn the shape and taste of each other’s mouth. They share the same breath as their bodies press closer together under the shower spray, and Gordon wraps an arm around Camille’s waist as if to never let him go.

Camille clings to Gordon’s shoulders with feverish desperation, soft whimpers pitching high in his throat. Gordon doesn’t know what this moment means, but he’s not strong enough to walk away. Camille’s back presses up against the shower wall as a lithe leg wraps around Gordon’s waist. Soap suds coat Gordon’s fingers as they work inside Camille to find his white-hot spot. He relishes each gasp and moan that falls from Camille’s lips as their bodies connect in the scorching, perfect moment. He bares his soul as he surrenders his heart and careens their bodies into oblivion.

Few words are spoken as they each come down from their shared high, still unwilling to drift far apart. Too many words choke in Gordon’s throat, and even Camille is unusually quiet. He turns the water off once they’re both clean, and while the silence is easy, it’s not common for them. Maybe… well, maybe - despite their physical connection just now - Camille’s just as adrift as Gordon feels.

Camille reaches for a towel and hands it to Gordon with a sheepish smile. “I don’t… we should talk.” He reaches for his own towel, scrubbing at the water drops on his skin. “You’re not… well, usually you have more to say.”

Gordon feels his throat tighten, hating the words that crawl up his throat and the tears that burn. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He doesn’t want to hear Camille say the words. Taking a deep breath, he tries to slow the anxious rhythm of his heart. “I… guess I just don’t know what to say.” He knots the towel around his waist as he catches Camille’s gaze. “I just… I’m so relieved that you’re well - that you’re here. I love you, Camille… unlike I’ve ever loved anyone.”

Camille’s eyes soften with warm adoration. “Oh, mon amour - I love you, too.”

The vice around Gordon’s heart tightens, and he doesn’t stop himself. “Then, why -.” His words choke around a lump in his throat, but he can’t hold back. “I’ve seen you… these past weeks. I’ve watched you… talk, touch, smile… at him, and I…,” his heart cracks wide open as Camille holds his gaze. “Of course, you’re welcome to trade in for a younger model if you want, but I-”

Gordon’s words cut off as Camille lunges forward to push him back against the wet shower wall. His feet slide against the slippery floor and water soaks through his towel, but it’s inconsequential compared to the resolute fire that blazes in Camille’s eyes as he crowds close. “Mackenzie Gordon, you stubborn, foolish man,” Camille’s voice is full of heart wrenching warmth and tender conviction. “You’ve had my love since we met, and you’ll have my love until my last breath. If I have given you cause to doubt it, then I will bear that regret and beg for your forgiveness if I must.”

Gordon shakes his head, scrambling for words. “You don’t need to beg for anything, Camille.” He drowns under the weight of Camille’s words. “If anything it’s me that should beg - plead, even - for you to stay.”

“No, mon amour, no.” Camille’s tone leaves no room for doubt. “You don’t need to beg or plead for anything - I’m yours.” He rests a hand over Gordon’s pounding heart. “Just as you’re mine.”

Relief bursts in Gordon’s chest, and he wants to take Camille at his word. He wants to believe that life will return to the comfortable ease and reassurance they shared in their love before Camille spent those 72-hours imprisoned. But there’s still an unspoken weight that hangs between them.

Camille’s thumb strokes the skin of his chest. “We… forever,” the corner of his mouth lifts as his gaze turns longing. “And maybe we… can one day include Karl.”

Gordon’s eyes widen. “What… what are you saying?” His mind reels with the implications. Surely, Camille didn’t mean the three of them… together… in that fashion? Did he?

“Would that be so wrong?” Camille searches Gordon’s gaze. “I share a close bond with both of you that doesn’t have to be mutually exclusive - nor, do I… think that I want it to be.”

Gordon isn’t unfamiliar with throuple arrangements. There are several in the organization who choose to live as such, but it’s never something that Gordon saw himself a part of. He gives a weak shake of his head. “Doesn’t this… doesn’t this seem a little fast? You’ve just been released, and he’s just -”

“I’ve had six weeks - almost seven if you include the days of my captivity - to get to know him, and think about this, and he’s…,” a heartachingly tender smile comes to Camille’s face. “He’s bright, thoughtful, and passionate - though, he’s careful about showing that side of himself. He’ll bring great strengths to World Communications-”

“He’s joining our division?”

Camille nods gently. “It’s his choice. They offered him several postings.”

Gordon shakes his head. “No doubt you had some encouraging or persuasive words to that effect.”

“Yes… Karl and I have talked a lot.” He sighs, still pressing against Gordon and leveling the shorter man with all the honesty he has. “And I hope… that you will talk with him, too. All things begin with first steps. As our mission here is first to explore, to communicate… then grow and develop. Maybe… maybe, we can find a way… together.” Camille’s cheeks turn a lovely pink color, and Gordon can’t say no to his warm, earnest eyes. “But for now - I want to lay in bed with you and hold you for the rest of the night. I love you, Gordon Mackenzie - and nothing that I share with Karl changes that.”

Five days later, just as he told Camille he would, Gordon stands on the flight line and watches Karl. The younger man, his brown eyes bright in the late afternoon sun, inspects the long slope of a black wing. The aircraft’s wheels are secured with chocks and the propeller locked as it rests in the open hangar, and Gordon lets his footsteps echo in the otherwise empty space. His black uniform fits him with fine, precise ease, and he can easily admit that Karl cuts a fine figure in his own matching uniform.

The distant roar of an airplane engine sounds in the distance as Karl glances up with a closed-mouth smile. Gordon’s face softens with his own smile. “Hello, Karl.”

“Hello… Mackenzie.”

“Mack is fine with me… assuming you’re comfortable with it.”

Karl nods carefully. “I… I think with time, yes.”

Gordon nods, hating the butterflies that erupt in his stomach. For God’s sake, he’s a grown man, a soldier, and a pilot. He can’t recall being so unnerved around another person since… well, not since the early days of his courtship with Camille. He tucks the thought away, nodding at the airplane. “I heard that you’re considering joining World Communications.”

“Yes, it…,” he pauses to wet his top lip. “It seems like a fitting way to give back, considering everything that’s come into my life since… well, since Camille landed in that field.”

Gordon huffs a gentle laugh through his nose. “I can understand…. The arrival of our presence usually brings about swift change. Not everyone adapts to it as easily as you have, though.”

A pink dusting comes to Karl’s cheeks, and it de-ages him by at least a decade. It seems impossible to imagine him as a fighter in a muddy trench, but Gordon has read the man’s personal history for himself. “Despite everything that I’d known of my life during the war,” Karl says with a small shake of his head. “And during… The Commander’s reign, I… I knew that there had to be another way to survive. Another way to live.” He steps around the large wing, moving closer to Gordon. “Just because there could be another fight didn’t mean that there had to be.”

“I suppose many men just lost sight of that.”

“The wrong men,” Karl agreed. “The men who made our world what it is.”

“What is was.” Gordon corrected. “The World-That-Was pre-war will yield to the world that it devolved into post-war which will yield to Wings Over the World and the beginning of a new world order.”

Karl’s brow furrows. “It won’t be easy. And from what I’ve seen, no one here deludes themself to that fact.”

“Putting the world in order will indeed be a long and complicated struggle. It… it already has been.” Gordon’s voice grows tight with the memory of Camille’s extended absence and the discovery of that hellish torture chamber. “But we have the unity of a common order and a common knowledge.”

The corners of Karl’s mouth lift to a smile that wrinkles his eyes. “We… forever.”

Gordon’s heart clenches in his chest and maybe… just maybe Camille is right. Perhaps they can find a way for the three of them to all share together.

The blush in Karl’s cheeks deepens as he glances away from Gordon almost bashfully. Something sparks in Gordon’s chest and he closes the gap between them, holding out a hand. “We… forever.”

Karl glances down at Gordon’s extended hand and slowly extends his own. The warmth of Karl’s skin takes him aback as they hold hands in the shadow of the aircraft. It feels… more right than Gordon would have ever guessed. Especially when Karl raises his eyes to Gordon’s, and the light catches in golden-amber flecks set against the deep brown pools.

“It… still doesn’t seem real, sometimes.” Karl says softly with another shake of his head. “Even though I'm here - I’m surrounded by the progress that’s been accomplished under the banner of active and aggressive peace. And I see it continue to unfold around me… it’s all so new…” His words trail off in an uncertain sigh. “And this with… Camille… and you….”

The corner of Gordon’s mouth lifts. “I’m glad he’s spoken with you about it. I… admittedly, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Me, neither.” Karl confesses as Gordon gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “He’s so sure of himself. He has been ever since I met him, and I… I hardly feel worthy of it, despite how much I want it… and him.”

“You’re not unworthy, Karl.” Again, Gordon squeezes his hand in reassurance. “Camille doesn’t give his heart away to just anyone.”

Karl blinks up at him shrewdly. “But he gave it away to you first.”

“Yes, he did, and I… I admit that I thought I would be the only one. But that doesn’t mean it has to be that way.” His heart starts to pound but he doesn’t dare let go of Karl’s hand. “I love him too much to make him choose, and like you said - it’s all so new, but just look what new has given us.” His gaze strays to the sleek, black aircraft and the hangar that surrounds them. If people never dared to dream of new explorations, then none of this would have come to be.

And if he doesn’t dare to dream of the new possibilities that having Karl in his life could be, then he should be ashamed of his own hypocrisy.

His gaze lands back on Karl, and really, the younger man is quite handsome. At length, Karl nods, a smile softening his face as he speaks. “New has given me Camille… and you, Mack.”

Gordon gives his hand another gentle squeeze, tugging Karl forward by their conjoined hands. “And with any luck,” Gordon says as hope blooms in his chest. “It will keep bringing us more good things to come - together.”

Karl returns his hand squeeze as they leave the aircraft’s shadow and walk into the sunlight. “Together.”

#joyeux noël 2005 #joyeux noël #lieutenant horstmayer #lieutenant gordon #lieutenant audebert #horstmayer #gordon #audebert #camille rené audebert #mackenzie joseph gordon #karl friedrich horstmayer

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leftenantmackgordon · 3 years

Text

Of Differences, Weaknesses & Complements

Series Main List

A Modern Office!AU Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer Fic

Co-written with the lovely @frmagpieao3!

Summary: They are the top three project managers in their firm. They are each other's greatest rival and greatest... well, they each have their own word.

Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (including frottage, handjobs, M/M/M sexual relationship), M/M/M relationship & desires, tender kissing, pining & yearning, alcohol & intoxicated character, explicit language, maudlin thoughts of self-inadequacy, (more to come as the fic grows!)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4 - targeted late April 2022

Chapter 5

#joyeux noël 2005 #joyeux noël #camille rené audebert #mackenzie joseph gordon #karl friedrich horstmayer #lieutenant horstmayer #lieutenant gordon #lieutenant audebert #horstmayer #gordon #audebert #mini-series fic

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leftenantmackgordon · 3 years

Text

Of Differences, Weaknesses & Complements - Ch. 2

A Modern Office!AU Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer Fic

Co-written with the lovely @frmagpieao3!

Series Main List

Warnings: Alcohol & intoxicated character, explicit language, maudlin thoughts of self-inadequacy, discussion of M/M/M relationship

Word Count: 4.7k

Karl’s head swims in foggy fuzz. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have started drinking on an empty stomach, but it’s too late for that now. He tips the highball to his lips and lets the pleasant burn of his second Old Fashioned wash over his tongue. It adds more fuel to the numbing fire in his veins as he hangs his head.

Another flash of lightning surrounds him and thunder echoes through the quiet hotel bar. Of course to add insult to this already shitty day, a thunderstorm has to roll in since, of course, he forgot to grab his umbrella on the way out. He stares down at the polished wood bartop and tries to remember. Isn’t there some old song about listening to the falling rain and feeling the fool? His fingers flex against the highball as he takes another sip. Another sip to dull the frustration of losing the project proposal that he’d been so sure to win.

And yet another sip to dull the heart-wrenching discovery in the back of Camille’s notebook. Closing his eyes, he can still see both of their sketches on the fine paper. The warm, magnetic life that Gordon radiates doesn’t even compare to his sad, pathetic ass. Of course, the irony isn’t lost on him as he sits here drowning his sorrows, no doubt looking just as pitiable as Camille already knows him to be.

He sighs and takes another drink, letting his gaze linger in the large mirror above the bar. Distantly, Karl knows that he should close out, go eat, and sober up. It’s only Wednesday, for fuck’s sake, and he still has a job to do tomorrow. He shouldn’t let his two stupid coworkers get to him. His two stupid coworkers who couldn’t possibly ever want someone so weak and wretched. His two stupid coworkers who twist his stomach in knots and break his heart. His two stupid coworkers who… fuck, are walking across the bar.

He forces an uncertain swallow and blinks hard as if to clear the drunken mirage. But his mind has never been able to conjure the exact brown of Camille’s eyes, nor the mercurial blue of Gordon’s before. His stomach sours as he’s flanked on both sides, Camille sliding elegantly onto the stool to his left and Gordon perching on his right.

Karl refuses to look at either of them as his fingers tighten around the highball. “What’re you two doin’ here?”

“Hoping we’d find you.” Camille’s gentle voice shoots a pang through his heart. Karl knows he’s not worthy of it - not really. It’s just the Frenchman's pity talking.

“Well,” Karl sighs, raising his highball to his lips. “You found me.”

Gordon’s dubious hum is anything but reassuring. “Or what’s left of you, at any rate. How many have you had?”

The tips of Karl’s ears go red. “This is just m’second.”

Gordon nudges his arm. “And that last time you ate?”

“Does brea’fast count?”

Camille murmurs under his breath in French - or maybe he swears - Karl can’t quite tell. His French is decent, but his mind is too slow at the moment. Maybe if he takes another drink that will help clear his head.

He swallows just as the bartender approaches on uneven steps. Err, or is that just his vision going uneven?

“Something to drink, gentlemen?” The bartender asks, setting cocktail napkins in front of Camille and Gordon.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Gordon answers with what no-doubt is a warm, personable smile. “And our friend here will also close out.”

Camille denies a drink, but in the mirror behind the bar, Karl does watch the exchange of concerned glances between the Frenchman and the bartender that place him squarely in the middle. Indignation flares in his chest as his jaw tenses. “I’m fine - I don’need you two to… to fuckin’ take care’o’me.” God, even he can hear the slur in his words, and embarrassed heat creeps up his neck.

“Oh, we’re not taking care of you.” Gordon’s soothing voice washes over him. “We’re taking care of your bank account - I remember the dent this place put on my credit card the last time we had bad-day drinks here.”

Karl turns with sluggish, annoyingly uncoordinated movements to watch the Scotsman reach beneath his unfairly stylish trench coat for his wallet. He raises a hand, trying to bat at Gordon’s arm, but it’s an impossible target. “Don’-don’... I go’this.”

The comforting weight of Camille’s hand falls to his shoulder, and he instantly goes still as the Frenchman speaks. “You’ll pay him back later, don’t worry. Consider it a loan.”

Karl scoffs. A loan, indeed. It sounds more like charity, and the knowledge does nothing to help his already wounded pride. He tips the rest of the highball’s contents down his throat, not wanting to listen to Gordon accept and sign the check. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The dark swirls behind his eyelids start rolling around, and he knows he’s fucked. He knows that he can hold his alcohol better than this, but perhaps he underestimated his empty stomach.

Camille’s steadying hand on his shoulder gives a gentle squeeze. “Come on,” the Frenchman rises to his feet, still keeping his hand on Karl’s shoulder. “We’ll probably have to catch a taxi with the storm.”

Another peel of thunder rolls through the bar, and Karl again laments that he doesn’t have an umbrella or raincoat. He glances again at Gordon’s coat and over at Camille, noticing a folded, black umbrella in his other hand. His stomach clenches at the thought of both of them being so prepared for the weather, and him - yet again - unprepared and ill-suited to take on the world. God, he needs to get out of here - he needs Camille and Gordon to leave him alone. Neither of them were supposed to see him like this.

Karl slowly, numbly pushes off the barstool and finds his feet. They feel kilometres away from his brain but he’s determined to walk out of here under his own steam. He doesn’t need anymore of Camille or Gordon’s disguised charity.

His fingers fumble for the strap of his laptop messenger bag, slinging the cross-body strap over his head and smoothing out his suit jacket. He still has something of his pride left, dammit. With a deep sigh, he steps forward, focused on reaching the front door and walking a straight line. Annoyingly, he feels Camille and Gordon fall into step with him as another flash of lightning fills the bar.

The heavy, humid air slaps him in the face as he pushes out to the street. He squints up at the falling rain, watching it drip heavily off the edge of the awning.

“Wait here a minute.” Camille’s voice draws Karl’s gaze back to earth as the Frenchman steps forward and unfurls his umbrella. With graceful ease, he steps towards the curb and raises his hand to hail a taxi.

Gordon’s solid weight materializes at Karl’s side, as he, too, watches Camille with a small smile. Suddenly, Karl realizes that Gordon’s overcoat isn’t wet, and given that their office is just around the corner…. He squeezes his eyes shut, jealousy burning as he pictures Camille and Gordon huddled close beneath the taller man’s umbrella.

“Here we go, come on.” Gordon’s gentle coax makes him open his eyes.

A taxi sits idling at the curb, and Camille steps back to the awning. Easily enough, he sticks to Camille’s dry side as they move for the taxi, but when Camille slides in first and hands his umbrella to Gordon, Karl's brow furrows. Weren’t they just going to pour him into the backseat and go their separate ways? But all too soon, Karl finds himself sitting in the middle between them. It’s something from his dreams and his fantasies, but right now, it’s his nightmare.

“Address. Come on, Karl.” Gordon’s firm, soft voice in his ear shakes him from his stupor just long enough. Taking care to deliberately enunciate - a weak attempt to hide his drunken slur - he gives his address to the waiting driver.

As the taxi glides into traffic, it doesn’t take long for the gentle motions of the vehicle to lull his eyes closed. It helps keep the world from spinning, it helps keep his roiling stomach at bay, it helps silence the maudlin thoughts in his head.

He just needs to tilt his head back against the seat. That should do it.

----------

Camille’s fingers itch to pull his notebook from his bag and sketch the scene in the backseat. But it’s already a tight squeeze with the three of them, their laptop bags, and his umbrella. Of course, he could reach for his phone and snap a photo, but that doesn’t feel appropriate, and the camera never does real life justice.

Instead, he settles for watching Karl’s eyes close and his dark lashes fan across his cheek. Watching as the younger man’s head lolls onto Mackenzie’s shoulder, and the older man shifts to accommodate him. A smile tugs at Camille’s lips as Mackenzie drapes an arm around Karl, and the younger man curls into his side as much as the backseat allows.

Camille has never had such an opportunity to study Karl up close before, letting his gaze linger on the curve of Karl’s cheek and the slope of his strong yet lean neck as he rests against Mackenzie’s broad shoulder. And when Mackenzie’s gaze finds his over Karl’s head, overwhelming affection bursts in Camille’s heart.

He looks down to see Mackenzie’s hand resting supportively on Karl’s flank, and he reaches out to rest his hand over Mackenzie’s. The older man’s appreciative smile widens as he spreads his fingers, allowing Camille’s fingertips to brush against him and Karl. “You know,” the Scotsman speaks softly, mindful of the driver in the front seat. “I could get used to this.”

Camille’s smile widens as he squeezes Mackenzie’s hand. “Me, too. Though… preferably with all of us happily tipsy, and Karl having a fuller stomach. I didn’t know that he skipped lunch today.”

“Even I have those days where lunch just isn’t a priority.” He glances down at Karl’s head with a scolding look that’s far too affectionate. “I know he’s lost projects before, but he’s never resorted to this.”

Again, Camille squeezes Mackenzie’s hand but this time it’s to temper his own concern. “He didn’t mention anything… but, he’s not usually one to volunteer his troubles.” A fond smile teases the corner of Camille’s mouth as his gaze sweeps over Karl’s face. “Perhaps he’ll tell us when he sobers up.”

Mackenzie squeezes both Camille’s hand and Karl’s flank. “I hope the three of us can have a far more meaningful conversation when he sobers up.”

Excited hope flares in Camille’s chest at the thought. He knows that they have to take the risk - if there’s even a slight chance that Karl wants what they want, then he would risk anything. And if Karl wants nothing to do with either of them, it would indeed break his heart, but at least he’s found Mackenzie, and that already means the world.

“Hör auf damit…,” the slurred words mumble from Karl. “Hör auf, über mich zu reden. Ich hasse das.”

Mackenzie glances down at him with a warm chuckle. “Lovely as it is to hear you slur in German, it doesn’t change the fact that we don’t understand you.”

Karl’s face scrunches in annoyed displeasure. “Sh-top…,” he mumbles again. “Sh-top talkin’bout me.”

Mackenzie’s smile grows as he tightens his hold. “Shows what you know. We’re talking about all of us.”

“I don’need… your help’or your… pity.”

“It’s alright, love.” Camille hears himself say as a blush overtakes his cheeks. “We don’t pity you.”

“I don’need… either’o you twos….” Karl attempts a weak shake of his head against Mackenzie’s shoulder but quickly stills. “You two jus’...,” he breaks off in a weary sigh before taking another deep breath and curling more into Mackenzie. “You… fuc’you shouldn’ smell s’good….”

Mackenzie’s mouth curls with a fond, yet undeniably pleased edge. “You’re going to hate yourself in the morning for saying that.”

“But he needn’t,” Camille’s face hardens as he flashes Mackenzie a warning glare before turning back to Karl. “If you remember any of this, then you needn’t feel ashamed of anything that you say to us. Ever.” He squeezes Mackenzie’s hand and purposely runs his fingers over Karl’s flank.

An almost pained wince crosses Karl’s face as he nuzzles against Mackenzie as if trying to escape Camille’s touch. “Sh-top… jus’stop. You don’need to rub it’n.”

Camille’s brow furrows but the taxi comes to stop at the curb before he can form a response. It’s surprisingly easy to get Karl out of the backseat while still pressed against Mackenzie’s side as Camille pays the fare. The younger man’s feet still have some capability of motion, but it takes Mackenzie’s strength to keep him upright after the lulling ride.

It’s a sight that continues to warm Camille’s heart as they manage to get Karl’s keys and unit number. After a short elevator ride and quick walk down the hall, it doesn’t take long for Camille to unlock and open the door. But as he holds it open for Mackenzie and Karl, his heart breaks as he takes in the apartment interior.

It feels so… empty. There’s a collection of the usual living room and kitchen furniture, but it looks uncomfortably like a sterile stock photo. The walls are devoid of any artwork, and there’s no immediate glimpses of personal touches or items on display. He thinks of the warm colors, worn furniture, and curated piles of art projects and books around his own apartment - and a foreign sense of panic comes over him as he follows Mackenzie through the lifeless, too-tidy place.

Bright light spills from the bedroom, and Mackenzie pauses at the foot of the neatly made bed. This room is just as stark as the rest of the apartment, a study in whites and greys with the only immediate splash of color being the red, digital clock on the bedside table. Stepping up to the Scotman’s side, they remove Karl’s laptop bag and slide off his suit jacket, draping it over the bag. Karl collapses to his charcoal bedspread with almost no effort, curling against one of the two white pillows in a way that de-ages him by at least a decade. The sight of him in such a barren, uninviting bed tugs at Camille’s heartstrings as he starts on the laces of Karl’s shoes.

The bed dips as Mackenzie drops a knee to better reach Karl’s belt. With a whisper of leather and cloth, it pulls free as Camille removes the second shoe. In that moment, Camille can’t resist brushing his fingers along Karl’s sock-clad ankle in a tender caress, wishing he could curl up with the younger man - that both he and Mackenzie could cuddle in bed with him.

Mackenzie stands to his full height, coiling the belt. “I’ll get him a glass of water.”

“Good thinking.” Camille gathers Karl’s shoes and walks over to the sliding closet door. Of course, the hanging clothes are neatly arranged, the folded clothes are in crisp stacks, and his shoes form orderly rows. The sight of such organization immediately puts the entirety of Camille’s apartment to shame, but it does make it easy to find where to place Karl’s shoes. He can’t resist one last glance at Karl’s clothes as he raises to his full height, almost disheartened to take in the predominant collection of neutral, solid colors - light colored shirts that could pair with almost any of the dark colored trousers and suits. It strikes him that it’s not unlike a uniform in its own right as it wouldn’t take a lot of time or effort to make clothing selections for the day.

He slides the door closed and turns to find Mackenzie staring quizzically at something on Karl’s dresser. The belt is gone from his hands, but Camille doesn’t see a glass of water. Quietly, he steps up to Mackenzie’s side, face pinching with a suspicious glare. “Are you being nosy?”

“It’s not being nosy when it’s displayed for anyone to see.” Mackenzie nods at a shadowbox atop the dresser. “I knew Karl was former military, but the name tag in this box isn’t his.”

Camille sighs in gentle admonishment. “Just because it’s on his dresser in his bedroom doesn’t mean it’s displayed for anyone to see.” He scoffs gently. “Didn’t you say that you were going to get him some water?”

Mackenzie turns a teasing glare on Camille before leaving the bedroom. As he stands in the silence of Karl’s personal space, Camille hates that he can’t ignore his own curiosity despite his words. He looks at the top of the dresser, spotting Karl’s belt next to the shadowbox of military decorations. He doesn’t recognize any of them, but he takes in two prominent black, yellow, and red medals surrounded by smaller ribbons, pips, and finally, the name tag.

M. Weiss

“Are you being nosy?” Mackenzie’s distinctly mocking-tone snaps his attention, and his cheeks flush with heat - like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The Scotsman’s shit-eating grin widens before he moves over to Karl’s bedside table. “You can’t deny that the name tag isn’t intriguing.”

“I can’t deny that it’s an invasion of Karl’s privacy that he won’t appreciate.”

“True enough, but hopefully… someday, maybe there won’t be any secrets between us.” He sets the glass down on the table as he glances down at Karl’s sleeping form. The corner of his mouth lifts with heartfelt affection. “Makes me wish we could curl up with him - all of us, comfortable and relaxed.”

A smile comes to Camille’s face. “I would like that very much.”

At length, Mackenzie turns his gaze back to Camille as he steps away from the bed. “In the meantime, at least you and I can get comfortable.”

Camille’s cheeks flush under a bashful smile. “No, we shouldn’t - not here, certainly. And we shouldn’t just leave him.”

Mackenzie nods gently before tilting his head towards the living room. “Then, let’s let him sleep this off, and we’ll figure out what to do next.”

With a gentle nod, Camille follows the older man back out into the living room and closes the door behind him. As he watches Mackenzie round the couch and look down at the coffee table, the strange sense of sad uneasiness washes over him again. The whole place makes him want to fill Karl’s life with color, with beauty, with love. To give Karl a proper home, and not… whatever impersonal hotel this is.

His gaze returns to Mackenzie’s face, noting the older man’s brow furrowed in concentration. He stares at something on the coffee table that Camille can’t see, but he swiftly rounds the couch to join the older man. Curiously, there’s an open, organized case of metal brushes, tools, and small bottles resting on the table’s surface next to a neatly folded microfiber cloth. Camille squints down in open confusion. “What is this?”

Mackenzie wets his top lip in a moment of consideration. “You know, I… I’m not sure.”

“It almost looks like metalworking tools… perhaps for a hobby?” It brightens his mood to think of Karl having some creative outlet to combat this dispassion of his apartment.

“Possibly. I suppose we’ll just have to ask him about it sometime.” He stoops to flip the cover of the nondescript, black case closed before turning to Camille. “Well, I don’t know about you - but I could stand to eat something. Karl could certainly do with some food when he wakes up, and his couch doesn’t look too uncomfortable.”

----------

Slowly, Karl blinks awake to darkness. Even through the pounding in his skull and the cotton-ball feel of his mouth, he recognizes his bedroom. He groans as he rolls over and looks at the bedside clock.

20:42

His night is so screwed. Wincing against his throbbing head, he scrubs a hand across his face as he fights back a yawn. That’s when he realizes there’s a full glass of water next to the clock, sitting on the glass surface with undeniable temptation. Rolling up to an elbow, he groans again as he reaches for it. Eagerly, he drinks it down in one go and realizes just how starving he is. Swinging his legs to the floor, he makes a mental note to never drink on an empty stomach again no matter how shitty the day is.

He rests his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths to try and ease his aching skull. The distant echo of a hearty chuckle outside his bedroom door slices through his hungover haze. He snaps his head towards the door as he debates reaching for the gun safe beneath his bed. But then he starts to remember - Camille’s soothing words, Mackenzie’s solid warmth. And the Scotsman’s undeniably good cologne.

Something other than hunger knots his stomach, and he curses low in German as he pushes to his feet. Stumbling to his closet, he pauses to change into black joggers and a grey v-neck t-shirt. In the bathroom, he splashes cold water on his face before downing a painkiller and trying to compose himself. He just needs to get rid of them, then get over them. His heart is his biggest weakness, and he doesn’t need any more reminders thrown in his face. He casts one last glance at his reflection, releasing a deep sigh before trudging out to the living room.

Of course, they’re both sitting on the couch. Gordon’s arm is slung across the back cushion, but Camille isn’t snuggled up to his side. He is close enough, though, that if Gordon lowered his arm they would be touching. The air hangs heavy with the fading scent of savory, spicy, Asian flavors, and Karl’s stomach clenches. By now, the other two men have both turned to look at him, and he can’t stand the concerned look on Camille’s face. The Frenchman looks far too worried about him, and Gordon looks far too accommodating.

The corner of Camille’s mouth lifts. “It’s good to see you up.”

Karl just resists an annoyed sigh. “I told you I was fine.”

“And we didn’t doubt you,” Gordon confirms. “But every now and then, we all need someone to have our back.”

Karl’s hand clenches at his side. Gordon might as well say that he’s a helpless child. He certainly feels that way, creeping out of his own bedroom to see the two older men sitting on his couch, waiting as if he owes them an explanation. Karl doesn’t owe them shit.

He closes his eyes against the throbbing in his skull for a long moment before he turns for the kitchen. “Well… you two certainly look cozy.”

Gordon’s sly grin sounds in his tone. “We could always be cozier.”

Of fucking course. Camille and Gordon could be on one of their couches, watching TV and making out, instead of babysitting his sorry ass. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know. Karl swiftly turns away from them to face the back row of kitchen cabinets as he shakes his head, fighting back traitorous, frustrating tears. “Then, get out of here, go fuck each other, and leave me alone. I’m fine.” His throat tightens as he fights the tremulous edge in his voice. “I’m fine.”

He reaches for the edge of the counter, gripping it tight to cling to the last vestige of control. He fucking refuses to lose it completely in front of them.

“Karl?” Camille’s voice is suddenly so close, so tender and caring. “It’s alright….” The warm weight of his gentle hand falls to Karl’s shoulder before there’s a wall of warmth at his back. Camille’s hug leaves plenty of room for Karl to wiggle free if he so chooses, but he finds himself melting into the taller man instead. When the weight of Camille’s arms bracket his midsection, he wraps his arms over Camille’s, pulling his love close for one glorious, stolen, selfish moment. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, and he may never get it again - it’s the perfect balm and the worst torture.

Karl shakes his head with a shuddering breath. “Don’t… please.” He forces a hard swallow. “You don’t have to pretend. I know what you think of me.”

“Oh?” Nothing in Camille’s kind, heart-wrenching tone changes. “And what do I think of you?”

Irritation ripples along Karl’s skin despite the comforting embrace. Is Camille really going to make him say it aloud? The corners of his mouth tighten as he sighs. “I saw those sketches… in the back of your notebook.” He pauses to draw a heavy breath. “And you don’t… don’t have to keep taking care of someone so helpless who can’t handle the stress.”

Camille shifts his stance, and the motion rocks him gently in the taller man’s embrace. “Is that what you think it means?” He leans his jaw against Karl’s shoulder and tilts his head against Karl’s. “Never, mon amour."

“Dammit, Camille,” Karl hisses, “don’t mock-.”

“It’s not a tease, Karl. For the second time today, I’ve never been more honest with anyone.” His hold on Karl tightens. “You keep your passions so carefully guarded, so locked away. But in the rare moments when they break to the surface, when you show the real you, you’re just… even more beautiful.”

The reassuring press of a warm, broad hand settles to his other shoulder, and surely - this must be a dream. Gordon’s hand squeezes his shoulder in affirmation as his voice carries so soft and sure. “He’s not the only one who thinks so.”

It’s almost too overwhelming - he’s not sure how he can breathe, but surely he’ll suffocate without Camille’s arms around him and Gordon holding his shoulder. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, but never dared to hope he could have.

He shakes his head as his mind reels. “I don’t… understand. This, it… it makes no sense.”

Gordon squeezes his shoulder again. “Who says it has to? Don’t they say the heart knows what it wants?”

“In this case, a clumsy way of saying that we…,” Camille breaks off with a heavy sigh. “Well, earlier… Mackenzie meant that we could all be cozier if… if you joined us.”

Karl feels the nervous tremor in Camille’s heavy exhale, and his heart nearly stops. The implication is too impossible - his dream come true and his worst nightmare made real. He shakes his head, unable to believe it. “You can’t be serious. You can’t possibly want that - either of you, or both of you.”

“What’s not to want?” Mackenzie says softly. “You, me, and him - we could be anything we wanted.” With a final squeeze, he withdraws his hand, and a new ache pits in Karl’s chest. “Camille and I discussed it earlier this afternoon, and we know where we stand. The rest is up to you.”

Camille sighs heavily and gives him one last gentle squeeze, as if it might be the last time he gets to hold Karl like this. “Mackenzie’s right.” Slowly, he unwraps himself from Karl and steps back. “We… want you, and we want each other. But only you know how you feel, or don’t feel… what you want or don’t want.” He sighs slowly as if he’s just as lost as Karl. “And there’s no right or wrong answer - not for this. And no timeline, this… this isn’t easy to take in.”

“And you may not be helping, Cami.” Mackenzie cautions gently, and his use of Cami makes Karl’s head spin. “We’ll go now, Karl. It’s a lot for a normal day - let alone when you’re hungover and starving. There’s some food in the fridge for you, by the way.”

“I hope you feel up to it,” Camille says softly, “I think it will help you feel better.”

Karl still can’t summon words or find his voice. Even if he could, he doesn’t know what he can possibly say. It’s so much, it’s too much, it’s everything. Instead, he just nods numbly.

“Alright.” Mackenzie says with a note of acceptance. “Come on, Camille. We’ve said… well, probably too much for one night.”

“Sleep well, Karl.” Camille doesn’t sound convinced, but with his back still turned, Karl listens to the two of them leave his kitchen, gather their things, and close the front door behind them.

The familiar, uneasy silence of his apartment greets him, and he wishes that they’d left the TV on. It’s always better than being alone with his own thoughts, even when he isn’t reeling from whatever the hell just happened in his kitchen.

A fresh wave of exhaustion overtakes him and the ache in his skull multiples. He doesn’t even think about food as he turns off the lights and disappears back into his bedroom. There’s too fucking much to think about, and he’s just too fucking tired.

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leftenantmackgordon · 2 years

Text

Crossing the Atlantic - Ch. 4

A Titanic-set AU Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer Series

Series Main List

Chapter Warnings: Explicit language, sexual fantasies, reference to masturbation, period typical & internalized homophobia, overbearing parent

Chapter Word Count: 3.9k

Ch. 4 - 13 April 1912

The note finds Camille while he takes the morning air on the boat deck. Admittedly, he was on his third aimless circuit, hoping to get a glimpse of the third officer on his rounds, but luck eluded him. Of course, it's ridiculous. He’s a grown man and he shouldn’t let a wonderful night under the stars affect him. No matter the confessions they made to the wind, no matter how close they lay under the brilliant night sky. But the memories still linger, and a smile warms his face.

If he had wings, he would happily chase those stars across the sky. But only if Mackenzie and Karl could come with him.

When the steward interrupts Camille’s distracted musing and lazy wandering, Camille accepts the proffered note with a nod of thanks. His heart flutters as he opens the envelope and unfolds the slip of paper to reveal neat, sharp handwriting.

If you’re agreeable, shall we meet again at 21:00 this evening outside the gymnasium? There’s nothing quite like a little physical exertion after dinner to stimulate digestion. - M. Gordon

His heart races as heat suffuses his blood. His cheeks flush at the third officer’s cheekiness, and he can’t hold back a hopeful smile. He glances at his pocket watch, and his lips purse with frustration. The appointed hour feels so far away, but the promise of a lovely evening in Mackenzie's – and hopefully Karl’s – company sustains him as his father drags him into another review of the record books in the suite sitting room.

It's a tedious afternoon of tiny numbers and narrow columns, coupled with his father’s disappointment ever present behind the glasses perched on the end of his nose. The books aren’t anything new, but Camille recognizes his father’s control for what it is. An insistence that Camille couldn’t possibly begin to understand all the facets of the family business enterprise, and he refuses to let Camille waste any opportunity to study.

Facts and figures still swim in Camille’s brain as he dresses for dinner. Ponchel lays out his best evening suit, assisting as Camille dons his finery layer by layer.

Camille threads a cufflink as he glances at the valet. “Ponchel, if my father asks for me after dinner, please tell him that I have alternate arrangements.”

“Oui, monsieur,” Ponchel nods as he secures the cufflink. “And if he asks about your alternate plans?”

Camille sighs as he adjusts his completed cuff before lining up the other sleeve. “You may tell him that the officer from last night has offered to continue the lesson on celestial observation, and I accepted his offer.”

The valet flashes him a curious look as he fastens the second cufflink, but he watches his words. “You should know that your father asked me to look after you last night when you declined to retire to the smoking room. I did indeed observe you on the boat deck with said officer and another gentleman… and, I trust that’s where I would find you again should your father request it?”

Camille’s stomach knots as Ponchel steps close to tie his bowtie. The older man carefully avoids Camille’s gaze, but Camille knows that he’s been caught. He works a swallow down his throat, careful not to disrupt Ponchel’s work. “Then, you may simply tell him that you have no knowledge of my alternate plans.” Guilty remorse creases his face. “I shouldn’t have asked you to lie for me. My sincerest apologies.”

Ponchel smiles kindly. “No apology needed, monsieur. I simply don’t wish to see you on poor terms with your father.”

Camille lifts his brow in a flash of incredulity. Ponchel’s talent for understatement never ceases to amaze him. The man has been René’s personal valet for years, assisting Camille when travel arrangements call for it, and as such, he knows well of their chilly relationship. When Ponchel steps back to let Camille inspect his handiwork in the mirror, the knot of his dinner tie is flawless as always.

He turns from the mirror to see Ponchel ready with his bespoke dinner jacket. The fine fabric slides up his arms and over his shoulders with an expert cut. As Ponchel adjusts the final fit, Camille musters his courage to speak. “I would not wish to jeopardize your position, Ponchel. But please know that if he does request you to look after me this evening, you will not find me on the boat deck.”

If the implication of Camille’s words bothers the valet, Ponchel gives no indication. He merely nods as something of a mischievous smile crosses his face. “I appreciate the forewarning. I hope that you have an enjoyable evening.”

Excited anticipation buzzes along Camille’s skin as he thinks back to Mackenzie’s note carefully tucked in his bedside table, and he offers Ponchel his parting thanks. If he had his way, he’d do away with the whole pretense of dinner. But missing out altogether, even if just to pace around his stateroom until the appointed time, would raise too many unwanted questions.

Instead, he smiles. He makes polite, if mindless, conversation with Miss Graham. René keeps a careful watch on him all the while, engaged in low conversation with Mr. Graham. It’s the same ploy every night, and if Camille wishes not to make a scene, he has no choice but to play along. But each course seems to drag on longer than the last until he takes the final bite of dessert and drops his napkin to the table. With a polite farewell to Miss Graham, he turns from the table but René corners him before he can make it too far.

“I do hope that you’re joining me for a cigar this evening,” René says, words heavy with expectation. “With the way Sir Cosmo has been boasting about his business ventures, it would do you well to hear how bad investments are made.”

Camille keeps his equanimous smile in place. “Regrettably, I have made alternate arrangements for this evening.”

“Again?” René keeps his voice low, but there’s no mistaking the disapproval in his eyes. “And just what diversion have you found this time?”

He remembers what he told Ponchel, and he’s careful not to trap himself. “I have another meeting with the officer from last night. His tutelage was quite insightful, and I’m intrigued to learn more.”

René’s brows pinch together. “Celestial navigation is his job, not yours. You have far greater enterprises to focus your attention on.”

“On another evening, perhaps. We’re still at sea for five more days,” he says as a cautious ripple works down his spine. “If Sir Cosmo is boasting as much as you claim, then it seems unlikely for him to waste such a captive audience before we reach New York.”

René glowers back at Camille, clearly displeased but unwilling to risk a confrontation in the first class dining saloon.

Camille works a swallow down his throat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, please. I don’t wish to add tardiness to my reputation.” He turns without waiting for a response, fearing he may have condemned himself to an unpleasant conversation upon return to the parlor suite, but he can’t bring himself to care at the moment. As he leaves the saloon and takes the Grand Staircase up towards the boat deck, excited anticipation hums through him. He quickens his pace when a glance at the stairwell clock reveals the 2059 hour.

He steps out onto the darkened deck, and a noticeably cold wind stings his cheeks. The sunshine filled air of the morning had held a pleasant warmth, and even last night under the stars hadn’t felt this chilly. But as he approaches the gymnasium, shivers ripple down his spine as the cold air seeps through his dinner suit.

If the cold wind bothers the third officer, though, Mackenzie gives no sign as Camille spots him, silhouetted in golden light from the ship’s interior. His brass buttons gleam with crisp polish, and his uniform nicely compliments his frame. Appreciative warmth stirs in Camille’s chest as Mackenzie meets his gaze, smiling in greeting.

“Good evening.” Mackenzie says, not quite able to disguise the open appreciation on his face as his gaze sweeps over Camille’s appearance.

It’s far from unwelcome as heat sparks in Camille’s blood. “Good evening,” he replies as another gusty breeze wraps around them. “I have to say it is notably colder tonight than last night.”

Mackenzie nods. “Despite our gradual turn towards the south, we’re far enough away from land now on the open ocean. The arctic air will remain a companion until we approach the Canadian coastline, as will the near-freezing water temperatures.”

Another shiver runs along Camille’s skin as he summons an attempt at a playful smile. “Then, I think I shall pass on a swim.”

A soft laugh rumbles in Mackenzie’s chest. “Unless you prefer to avail yourself of the Swimming Bath, then I would have to agree with you.” He glances over his shoulder before turning back to Camille as he holds out a guiding hand. “Shall we?”

Camille doesn’t hesitate before falling into step with the other man as they approach a door marked ‘Crew Only’. But he does arch a questioning brow as Mackenzie reveals his brass key ring and the door swings open wide. “Are you sure…?”

Mackenzie’s answering smile leaves no room for doubt. “Quite sure.”

Karl paces with unease. He knows that he shouldn’t do this. He’s a third class passenger on a third class ticket, and he has no business accepting the third officer's invitation. Yet… here he stands in the appointed third class corridor, near what he desperately hopes is the correct door.

The note from the third officer still burns a hole in his pocket, and he grips it tight as if to prove it isn’t a figment of his imagination. He doesn’t know what to expect, but he’s had all day to guess, and with each guess, his hope has grown. He hopes that Camille will accompany the third officer. He hopes to spend more time in both of their companies. He hopes-

His thoughts cut short as the metal lock mechanism on the door marked with ‘Crew Only’ engages. His heart leaps to his throat as the door swings open to reveal not only Mackenzie, but also Camille standing behind him. A relieved smile cracks Karl's face before he can stop it.

Mackenzie sends him a startlingly playful smile. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“I…” Karl hates how breathy his words sound. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

Camille nods with warm appreciation. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Mackenzie waves him forward. “Come on before someone sees you.”

A nervous shiver runs down Karl’s spine and with a quick glance down the corridor, he confirms that he’s alone before stepping into what he realizes is a stairwell. Mackenzie locks the door behind him, and Karl’s heart pounds with excited uncertainty. He debates speaking, debates asking about their destination, but as Mackenzie starts down the stairs, Karl decides to hold his tongue.

They step out into an elegant, wood-paneled corridor that Karl has come to recognize as a telltale sign of first class accommodations. It creates a far more inviting atmosphere than the white-enameled steel and paneling of the ship's third class accommodations.

Camille chuckles low in this throat, shaking his head as recognition lights his face. “We’re heading for the squash court, aren’t we?”

Mackenzie turns, just catching their gazes. “Well spotted.”

Again, Camille shakes his head with warm amusement. “Physical exertion after dinner, indeed.”

The third officer has no decency to look ashamed for his cheeky note or the presumption on tonight’s activity. “Karl and I were both quite taken with your display on the court yesterday morning, and if you’re not willing to provide us the benefit of your tutelage, then perhaps you might get enjoyment from watching us attempt the sport. Hopefully we’ll present ourselves as something better than bumbling buffoons, but therein should lie the fun.”

Karl’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. It was one thing to watch the sport played yesterday, but another to attempt the sport for himself in this moment. Especially as Mackenzie opens another door and the brightly lit, white rectangular room comes into view. Their footsteps echo in the stark space, and Camille glances around with a fond smile before speaking. “It would be my honor to share what little knowledge of the sport I possess.” He looks over at Karl with a hesitant edge. “Does that sound agreeable?”

A lump forms in Karl’s throat as words escape him. It sounds more than agreeable, and he wants to pinch himself. How is this possibly real? Quickly, he nods as the corner of his mouth lifts. “Quite agreeable, though I apologize for how poor you will find my skill.”

“Excellent!” Mackenzie proclaims turning towards the cabinets along the room’s back wall. Karl’s mouth goes dry as the officer works at the buttons of his navy jacket, the open edges hanging loose as he unlocks a cabinet door. Camille steps towards him, accepting two rackets and a small ball. Adjusting the items in one hand, he works at his pristine white tie with the other until the ends fall free and his top shirt button pops open.

Karl forces a hard swallow at the sight, not helped as Mackenzie shrugs out of his jacket to reveal his white shirtsleeves. Karl shouldn’t dare remove his jacket or vest right now. Heat races along his skin to see the other men so dressed down, and he doesn’t need to chance that Camille or Gordon will see too much.

Warm mirth overtakes Camille’s face as he approaches Karl. “We won’t bother with the official rules.” He holds a racket out for Karl, and Karl wraps his left hand around the soft leather grip while Camille continues speaking. “They’ll be worthless with the three of us, anyway.”

Karl flexes his fingers against the grip, testing the feel of the racket’s weight. “I… again, I apologize for my lack of skill at this game-”

“You’re not the only one.” Mackenzie gently interrupts as he gives an experimental swing of his racket. “But that’s why we’re here, and the rules don’t matter.”

It’s such a tempting notion, and Karl finds himself nodding in agreement before he thinks to voice further protest. Camille nods at him with satisfied agreement before continuing. “Then, here’s what you need to know - we’ll hit the ball in a one,” Camille points to himself. “Two.” He motions at Karl before gesturing at Mackenzie. “And three pattern. I’ll hit first, then Karl, and Mackenzie - and so it repeats. You’re allowed one bounce of the ball on the floor before we’ll call it ‘dead’ and reset the order. Your only objective is to hit the ball against the wall below that top line,” he motions with his racket at the red line high up on the wall. “Otherwise, you can hit the ball against almost all of the surrounding surfaces to do it.”

He steps back with an almost teasing smile as he holds the ball. Karl notices Mackenzie spreading out on the floor, and he looks around to find some open space. Camille gives a gentle shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter where you start - we’ll all be moving around - as you no doubt saw yesterday. And hopefully we… well, we might run into each other with the three of us.” An attractive blush colors his cheeks. “I’ve never played with two partners before.”

Karl’s heart skips a beat and the tips of his ears go red. Everything about this moment is so forbidden yet there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Mackenzie’s amused hum sounds in the tall room. “Then, we’ll be sure to go easy on you.”

If possible, Camille’s smile widens, and it’s beautiful… he’s beautiful, Karl realizes. The thought hits him with a strange giddy happiness that of all the places on this big, beautiful ship that Camille could be - he’s choosing to share his beautiful smile with Karl and Mackenzie.

Camille turns to face the wall and rolls his shoulders. “We’ll do a couple of practice hits - or volleys - to get a feel for the order and warm up.” He raises his arm and lofts the ball into the air. With a solid swing, his racket connects with the ball to send it bouncing off the white wall. Karl kicks his feet into motion and manages - just barely - to catch it on his racket’s edge. It banks off a side wall before smacking against the back wall.

“Nice shot!” Camille’s call echoes off the stark wall. “Now, Mackenzie!”

The Scotsman hustles across the floor with a strong swing of his racket and hits the ball to send it sailing towards the back wall. It springs back with a dull thud, and Camille runs to meet it.

Time disappears as they exist in their own world. The ball’s thuds punctuate the air, mixed with their laughter, encouraging calls, and heavy breathing. Sweat gathers on their brows as their bodies move around the court - and it doesn't take long for Karl to shrug off his jacket and vest. He’s never had an opportunity to learn if he was a so-called athletic man, but he takes to the racket with inherent ease.

Of course, Camille is the most consistent and accurate hitter. It makes Karl want to watch him closer, to learn his secrets and match his skill. The taller man is poetry in motion - just like he was yesterday - even though he still wears his dark evening suit. That fact alone almost makes it worse, especially not helped when Camille sheds his dark suit jacket and pulls his bow tie free of his shirt collar. Karl’s mouth goes dry at the exposed glimpses of the hollow of Camille’s throat. And when they collide on a missed hit, Karl’s heart seizes as he breathes in the scent of exertion that mixes with hints of the Frenchman's cologne. It doesn’t help when his eyes connect with Camille’s, and the taller man’s eyes go wide with open fondness and something far more… desirous.

But Mackenzie is equally enthralling. There’s such unassuming strength to the third officer, and Karl admires the man’s nimble movements. His easy-rolling laughter speaks to the overwhelming fondness warming Karl’s chest as he pulls his racket-hand back to strike the ball. After Mackenzie discards his tie to the growing pile of clothing, Karl nearly drops his racket as the man’s white sleeves are rolled up to reveal solid forearms. Karl’s instantly struck with the urge to feel those hands holding him down while Camille’s elegant hands trace other parts of his body.

Karl's cheeks already burn from the physical exertion, and his heart already races - but he should be far more mindful of such stray thoughts. Though, that's easier said than done - especially when he lunges for the ball and misses. He sprawls against the floor and finds Mackenzie’s extended hand in his face just as quick. The flushed warmth of Mackenzie’s skin just emphasizes the icy blue of his eyes as he holds Karl’s hand for a long moment once he’s found his feet.

As much as he enjoys his own moments with each of these men, he’s uniquely taken with Camille and Mackenzie’s interactions. He can’t be sure if he’s reading too much into it - but there seems to be a similar, mutual interest. A fascination - perhaps even an attraction - as they move and dance around each other in pursuit of the squash ball and an enjoyable evening.

In fact, it’s the most enjoyable evening Karl ever remembers.

Exhaustion catches up to all of them and, gradually, their movements slow. Karl lunges for a low ball, but Camille and Mackenzie can’t move away quick enough. He stumbles into them and rackets clatter to the floor as arms wrap around each other. The close contact takes his breath away as he registers the combined feel of Camille’s long, soft fingers and Mackenzie’s strong, sea-toughened hands burning through his shirt. The air goes thick as they each gasp for breath like men starved for it. He’s close enough to see the perspiration clinging to Camille’s skin and smell the tobacco on Mackenzie’s breath - and he wants. He wants with a force that tries his sanity and curls his toes as his fingers flex against Camille’s shoulder and Mackenzie’s upper arm. Somewhere in his mind, he knows it’s wrong to want one man with such all-consuming need, let alone two.

But right here, right now - he wants to know the taste of Camille’s tongue, he wants to know the press of Mackenzie’s mouth.

He slams his eyes shut to chase away the too-tempting images, not helped when a hot breath skims along his neck. He isn’t sure how long they all stand together or who moves away first. But all too soon, he finds himself alone, reeling from their absence and missing their searing heat against his skin. His cheeks burn and his chest heaves - but fortunately, the other two look just as worse for wear. Camille’s neck and cheeks are flushed a delicious shade as he runs a hand through his hair, gulping long, deep breaths. Mackenzie scrubs a hand over his face while the other rests against his hip as he, too, tries to tame his breathing.

Perhaps they each need a minute to collect themselves. Especially as Karl realizes how hard he strains against the front of his trousers. Especially when traitorous thoughts race in his mind. Fuck, what would it be to have Mackenzie’s hand wrapped around his cock with Camille’s long fingers teasing him open while the court's bright lights blaze above him? He bites his lip to stifle a needy whimper and tries to discreetly adjust his aching need in the confines of his trousers before turning around.

Camille stoops to pick up two of the forgotten rackets. “A most enjoyable game, gentlemen.”

The corner of Mackenzie’s mouth lifts, and his eyes glitter as if he wants to say more than he knows he should. “Quite so. Is it too presumptuous to say that we should do it again sometime?”

Of course, Karl knows that he’s only here at Mackenzie’s grace - this facility is only exclusive to first class passengers, after all - so, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he watches an unrestrained, gorgeous smile fill out Camille’s face as the Frenchman nods. “I would like that very much.” His warm eyes land on Karl. “What do you say, Karl?”

“And don’t ask if you’re invited,” Mackenzie interrupts, carding his fingers through his hair with a mischievous smirk beneath his bright eyes, “after tonight, well… I don’t think I'm alone in saying that the three of us want to spend more time together, however we can.”

Karl’s heart skips a beat as his mouth goes dry. It’s everything he wants and yet knows that he shouldn’t have. He doesn’t let it stop him from being selfish, from risking everything just to be with them however he can. Glancing between both of their cautiously hopeful smiles, Karl nods. “I would enjoy seeing you both again - either here, or wherever we can meet….” Karl doesn’t need to say the rest - even in their shirtsleeves, there’s still no mistaking the fine-cloth tailoring of Camille’s clothing to the standard-issue design of Mackenzie's to the unrefined, coarse fabric of Karl’s clothing.

None of that seems to bother the other two men – his societal betters, supposedly – as they exchange a warm, fond smile.

It stays with Karl long after he returns to the third class common area and finally lays down in his narrow berth. Memories of the evening replay endlessly in his mind as heat burns along his skin. He yearns to take himself in hand, to indulge the attraction welling within him, but a grunting snore from his bunkmate stills his hand.

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leftenantmackgordon · 3 years

Text

Of Differences, Weaknesses & Complements - Ch. 1

A Modern Office!AU Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer Fic

Co-written with the lovely @frmagpieao3!

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Summary: They are the top three project managers in their firm. They are each other's greatest rival and greatest... well, they each have their own word.

Warnings: M/M/M relationship desires, tender kissing, pining & yearning

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: At some point, there will likely be a Part II. Thanks for reading!

Audebert. Gordon. Horstmayer.

Everyone at the firm knows those three names. They’re consistently the three top-ranked project managers year after year in everything from on-time delivery to profit margins to client satisfaction.

Almost everyone says that Audebert - Camille, he always insists - is the most approachable. He listens with intent to understand, treating everyone as a person first and an employee second. Even when he’s pressing for deadlines and informing everyone about mandatory overtime, he’s always calm and gentle-spoken. Plenty of people have assumed his demeanor makes him a pushover and proceeded to underestimate him at their own peril. He’ll never admit it, of course, but he’s one of the top three in the firm for a reason.

If there’s laughter echoing from a conference room, everyone knows that it’s one of Gordon’s meetings. Gordon - or Mackenzie, he isn’t picky - has a talent for getting the most out of his teams while making them think that they’re the masters of their own destiny. Of course, he’s calling the shots while managing scope, schedule, and budget - but he’s quick with his witty observations that never fail to raise spirits even during the most stressful weeks. And that’s to say nothing of his project win rate, which according to the grapevine, is unmatched in company history.

No one, however, can explain Horstmayer’s effective efficiency. Horstmayer - Horstmayer to most, and Karl to some - has an uncanny talent for cutting through the corporate bullshit and delivering results. He keeps his teams focused on the brass tacks of project execution with organized, clipped precision. Perhaps a little too clipped depending on the day or the meeting, but everyone still vies for placement on his team. His projects are blessedly free of drama, and if it does rear its head, he'll take one for the team to keep them out of the quagmire. He may not be the most personable, but he still matches Audebert and Gordon in the project success rankings.

They are each other's greatest rival and best strength. And - if Karl is honest with himself - his greatest weaknesses.

Perhaps it’s that despite the change in corporate dress code two years ago, Gordon still wears a tie every day. A sleek tie that never fails to accentuate the watercolor blue of his eyes. It’s a devastating combination when he flashes a roguish grin that reaches those captivating eyes while he balances the tricky tightrope between leadership and management. If only Karl could walk that line himself or learn the older man’s secret, perhaps he’d stop watching Gordon so closely. Or, perhaps not - the older man does wear very nicely-tailored trousers.

Perhaps if he could stop noticing Camille’s shy smiles when the Frenchman thinks no one is looking. The shy smiles that the man has no business harboring. Karl has seen his project balance sheets - the man brings in as many millions as he does - but Karl would never know it from looking at him. In fact, Karl’s fingers twitch with the urge to brush Camille’s soft, loose hair from his brow as he demands that the man stand tall with the steel in his spine that Karl knows is there.

Maybe someday. Maybe someday he can get over his infatuations with his two greatest rivals - but today, he has bigger problems.

He fumes as he closes the conference room door and marches back to his office. The news that his latest proposal hadn’t won still burns. Of course, losing a project always hurts, but this one hit hard - especially given the numerous late nights that he donated to pull the proposal together. He can’t help but glare at Camille’s and Gordon’s offices as he passes, and he contemplates how long he can keep the loss a secret.

He enters his office and spots a handwritten note on his desk. His hand clenches to a fist as he reads.

Condolences on losing the pine tree farm project proposal. I suppose it’s true what they say: money doesn’t grow on trees. - C. Audebert

More like Aude-bastard. A little sketch of a half-dead, half-sad Christmas tree accompanies the note, and Karl grits his teeth. He sees red as he crumples the note and goes in search of the other man.

Befitting his rotten luck, Camille’s office is empty, and his laptop is dark. Of course, there’s no obvious way to know when the man will return, and it does nothing to ease the frustration that simmers along Karl’s skin. But that’s when his eye catches on the most unusual sight: Camille’s Moleskine notebook resting open on the desk.

If there’s one fact that Karl knows about Camille Audebert with absolute certainty, it's that the man is never seen without his Moleskine. It’s almost like a personal totem or security blanket as the Frenchman holds it close and makes incessant notations Yet, here it is - open on his desk as if he’d been called away so suddenly that he hadn’t bothered to remember it.

The thought strikes Karl as worrisome, but he can’t quell his curiosity. He steps into the vacant office and glances at the exposed pages. Surprisingly, they’re devoid of any notes or sketches, but these pages are so far back in the book that it makes sense for them to be blank. Or does it? There may only be two or three pages between the open page and the notebook’s back cover, but that makes Karl all the more curious.

With a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm that he’s alone, he reaches out and turns the page. He stops short at the sketch that greets him.

It’s… himself. Only it’s… it’s Karl as he never sees himself. The lines of his face speak to disappointment, to stress, to frustration. He looks so dejected and downtrodden… is this really how he looks when he loses a project or takes a setback? His indignant anger boils away as his thoughts race. Is this really how Camille sees him? Just as a young man so burdened by the pressure of work and deserving of pity? Is that only how Camille sees him?

He draws a shaking breath as he flips the page again, and his heart stops. The sketch of a bright-eyed, amused Gordon stares back at him. There’s a vitality to the laugh lines of the Scotsman's eyes and the curve of his mouth that makes jealousy pool in Karl’s stomach.

He glances back at the previous page - at the sketch that humanizes him in an environment where so many consider him cold and stiff - and his hand shakes against the page. Of course, why wouldn’t Camille be drawn to the Scotsman’s more personable and magnetic presence? Why would Camille ever want someone who’s such an austere, tragic figure?

He lets the notebook page flutter back to the desktop as he turns to go. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he knows that he’s far too sober for this shit day.

----------

Camille pinches the bridge of his nose as he walks back to his office. A one hour, impromptu business development meeting was not what he bargained for, but when the Division Vice President calls, it’s hard to say no. He knows there must be at least half a dozen phone calls that he’s missed and twice as many emails, but when he steps back into his office, those are suddenly the least of his worries.

His Moleskine notebook is still open - but not to the deliberate blank pages that he left exposed. The crude sketch of Mackenzie’s mesmerizing, mirthful expression greets him instead, and his stomach drops to his feet. Who could possibly have rummaged in his office and discovered it? Nothing else on his desk looks disturbed, yet he can’t shake the feeling that he’s been vandalized.

Especially when he acknowledges how he feels about Mackenzie. It’s no surprise that the older man draws his admiration and respect, and… more than that. There’s a genuine honesty to the man, and Camille never doubts where he stands in the man’s esteem. Of course, none of that does anything to ease the butterflies that erupt in his stomach when he catches a mischievous gleam in Mackenzie’s handsome, muted blue eyes. Or the fond affection that bursts in his chest during the handful of precious moments when he’s the center of Mackenzie’s attention.

If there’s one person that he’d never want to see this sketch, it’s the Scotsman. Though, Karl is a close second. He knows that Karl has a well of warmth and emotion deep within him even if he doesn’t let it show in a professional setting. It’s probably compensation as the youngest of the three of them, but Camille wants desperately to reassure him that he can be himself, that he can show some vulnerability, that he can show some good humor. He’s seen glimpses of all of it in the stoic German, but he longs to bring it to the surface - preferably while his hands weave in the man’s lush hair and his lips learn the younger man’s taste.

He sighs as his cheeks burn with embarrassed heat. He needs to find out who could have seen this sketch - and did they explore any of the additional pages? He snaps the Moleskine from his desktop and clutches it close in a familiar gesture of comfort. Of course, his two greatest rivals - his two forbidden amors - come immediately to mind.

He finds Karl’s office dark, but Mackenzie is hard at work. The Scotsman’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he stares at his laptop, and Camille doesn’t have the heart to disturb him.

Almost.

He knocks gently on the door frame, and a small, crooked smile comes to his face.

Mackenzie’s eyes dart to his, wrinkling in the corners with a welcoming grin. “Camille - always a pleasure.”

Heat rises under Camille’s dress shirt collar as his fingers tighten on the Moleskine, and he steps inside. “I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

Mackenzie leans back in his chair, smoothing the line of his neatly-knotted tie. “Not at all. I'm starting to go cross-eyed from too many spreadsheets.” His perceptive gaze sweeps Camille up and down. “What can I do for you?”

He draws a suddenly nervous breath. “I wondered… if perhaps you had seen anyone in my office within the last hour? Or… if you had stopped by?”

“Not within the last hour,” Mackenzie says with a shake of his head. “Though to be fair, I haven’t glanced up from my laptop much. Nor have I moved from this spot thanks to the grind of budget forecasting.” His brow pinches with kind curiosity. “Why do you ask?”

Camille draws a breath to speak, but cuts himself off as a flush rises in his cheeks. His grip tightens reflexively on his notebook, and if Mackenzie isn’t his mystery visitor, then does he really need to know?

Concern creeps to the lines of Mackenzie’s face, and he rises from his chair. “Did something happen?” He comes around to the front of his desk, resting his hands casually in his trousers pockets. “Was something taken?”

Camille shakes his head but even he thinks it’s a futile gesture as Mackenzie keeps speaking. “Or was something disturbed?”

He feels himself wince as Mackenzie hits the nail on the head. He knows the answer is written all over his face, and when he meets Mackenzie’s gaze, the gleam in those icy blue eyes tells him that the Scotsman won’t let it go now. He shouldn’t like it as much as he does, and arousal sparks unbidden in Camille’s veins.

But Mackenzie doesn’t press him. He just holds Camille’s gaze with the question as he perches against his desk and patiently waits.

Camille wets his lips and knows that he needs to stop making this a big deal. He gives presentations in front of the CEO on a regular basis, so there should be nothing so unnerving about standing opposite Mackenzie right now. He squares his shoulders and takes a breath, squeezing the Moleskine tighter. “It’s just… someone saw something that they weren’t meant to see.”

Mackenzie’s eyes flicker down his front and return with a shrewd edge even as his face warms with kind understanding. “Surely, it can’t be that bad.” He pushes off his desk, and his small smile makes Camille want to melt, especially as those blue eyes hold him so intently. “And even if it is,” he moves towards Camille with slow, easy steps, “I’ll do anything that I can to help you, you know that.”

That shouldn’t warm Camille’s heart as much as it does, but he’d never accuse Mackenzie of being disingenuous. The comforting thought teases a smile to his face as he nods absently, and Mackenzie moves faster than he can blink.

The Moleskine is plucked clean from his hands in his moment of distraction, and Mackenzie takes swift, retreating steps back towards his desk. Camille’s heart leaps to his throat as panic bursts in his chest. “Mackenzie, please -.”

“You’ve had a death grip on this thing since you walked in here,” Mackenzie coolly, calmly states. “So, perhaps I’m right in thinking that it’s something in here.”

The Scotsman flips the cover back, and Camille’s stomach drops to his feet but he can't bring himself to move.

----------

Mackenzie gazes at the pages. If the Frenchman was foolish enough to put something in this notebook that he carries everywhere in the office yet wants no one to see, then that's probably poor planning on his part. Granted, it’s still a personal item, and Mackenzie does know better than to rifle through another’s belongings. But he can tell from the stricken expression on Camille’s handsome face that this is something different.

This isn’t business. It’s something personal.

He flips through the pages, and at first, it’s nothing incriminating. Just a collection of to-do lists, action items, and meetings notes. Little sketches and doodles accompany the margins, and they tug at Mackenzie’s heart. He always enjoys seeing Camille’s personal touch on any hardcopy document that crosses his desk. But then he notices - some of the sketches are of himself. Some are also of Karl. And the two juxtaposing sketches towards the back of the notebook take his breath away.

Camille has captured them both in a way that feels so personal, so heartfelt. Seeing the inked sketches now feels like a complete invasion of the Frenchman’s privacy, and it distantly occurs to Mackenzie that maybe he should apologize. But it’s also extremely revealing that Camille hasn’t tried to rip the Moleskine out of Mackenzie's hands.

He realizes he’s breathing hard, stunned by something that should be so simple. Perhaps it would be if not for his own complicated feelings for his two coworkers. One gentle and warm who wears his heart on his sleeve, and the other sharp and reserved who keeps things close to the vest. Their differences are perfectly delicious, and he wants to be selfish with both of them. To show one that he needn’t always take life so seriously while working to thicken up the other’s skin. Of course, the thought that they could team-up against him in return is just as appealing. He knows there are things each of them could teach him in return, too.

The possibilities are endless, but the possibility of it becoming a reality seems like a pipe dream.

Or is it?

Mackenzie looks back at the sketches as his mind continues to work. These aren’t the average doodles that have accompanied the previous pages. No, these have far more care and attention - dare he say love? - in the lines that create his and Karl’s expressions. He wets his top lip as he considers his next move.

Slowly, he turns to look at Camille, struck by the vulnerability in the man’s molten chocolate eyes. He nods over the Frenchman’ shoulder. “Close the door.”

Camille’s eyes widen with obvious surprise and confusion as he visibly hesitates.

The corner of Mackenzie’s mouth lifts with encouragement. “Because you may not want the floor to hear what I have to say.”

A shuddering sigh punches from Camille’s chest, and he resigns himself to close the door. He turns back to face the older man, and looks braced for impact. As if he’s prepared to bear the full weight of Mackenzie’s judgment and sentence.

He closes the Moleskine and holds it out to Camille. The Frenchman eagerly takes it back, holding it tight as if it’s his only lifeline. If only he knew how wrong he is. The white noise of the HVAC unit sounds like a freight train as Mackenzie summons the nerve to speak. “It’s just the two of us in there.” He nods towards the notebook. “You’ve lots of sketches scattered throughout, but no people other than me and Karl.”

Camille’s eyes cast about, as if he’s looking for a place to hide and finds none. Mackenzie keeps his face relaxed and posture open as he waits. At length, Camille slowly nods. “Yes.” Despite the uncertain set of the younger man's face, his voice carries a firm determination. “That is true.”

Mackenzie’s breath catches with anticipation. “Would you tell me why?”

Camille’s face pinches with uncertain defeat, and Mackenzie wants to reassure him that he couldn’t be more wrong about any and every doubt that plagues him. But then, a smile starts to curl the corner of Camille’s mouth as his eyes swim with fond memory and warm affection. “You both…,” he starts softly, shaking his head. “You complement each other… like, fire and water. Like the sun and the moon.” A beautiful flush grows in his cheeks. “I know it sounds ridiculous, and completely unprofessional, and-.”

“And what about you?” Mackenzie implores, unable to stay away any longer. He closes the distance between them, his voice sliding to a low, whisper-thin thread. “Do you see yourself as part of that complement?”

“Me?” Camille breathes, his eyes darkening with unmistakable hunger that sets Mackenzie’s blood on fire. “I’m just… adrift in the middle. Trying not to drown in the tide or burn in the light, I suppose.”

Mackenzie’s heart threatens to beat out of his chest as Camille’s eyes dart down to his mouth with naked want before returning to his eyes. He takes the last step forward, never having felt more certain about anything in his life. “I’m going to kiss you unless you tell me no.”

Camille’s whimpering sigh is all the confirmation he needs. He leans in, and Camille’s mouth meets him. For all of the Frenchman’s reluctance and hesitance, there’s none of it in his kiss. The drag of well-trimmed facial hair sends sparks of pleasure down Mackenzie’s spine as he learns the shape of Camille's mouth. The taller man whimpers high in his throat, and Mackenzie drinks it down as the kiss deepens. His hands fall to Camille’s slender hips, and Camille leans into his touch.

He slows the kiss to a lingering press of lips as they try to catch their breath. He feels Camille’s lips curl to a wide smile before the Frenchman steals another sweet, relieved kiss.

It stirs Mackenzie’s own smile, and he can’t believe his luck. “You don’t need to feel adrift any longer, Camille.” He whispers, sneaking a kiss of his own. “To use your words - let us be your life ring and heat shield.”

Camille’s lips hum with a soft chuckle. “I know my words were silly. You needn’t make them sound even sillier.”

“Silly they may be, but it doesn’t make the sentiment any less true.”

Camille pulls back just enough to let Mackenzie stare into his desire-darkened eyes that brim with bursting happiness. “Is that… truly what you want. Me?... And Karl?”

Mackenzie's stomach drops to his feet in the moment of truth, but he’s not about to retreat now. He may never have another chance, and he nods slowly. “I have for some time. But it sounded too good to ever be true.”

Camille nods in understanding. “I didn’t think… and I tried not to hope for fear of disappointment, but… I can’t stop thinking about you and Karl, either. And wanting… both of you.”

The force of Mackenzie’s smile threatens to split his face as he watches it mirror on Camille’s face. They lose themselves in another long, tender kiss full of relief and realized intentions. But as good as it feels, they both know there’s something missing.

Or rather, someone.

Series Main List

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leftenantmackgordon · 3 years

Text

Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer HC's No. 1

These headcanons were delightfully developed with @frmagpieao3. Given that conversations are still on-going with the group, these will likely continue to be a thing! There are some modern references in the list, but most can be read as post-war - however you want!

Word Count: 1.7k+

Warnings: Sooo much M/M/M domestic fluff, brief references to verbally abusive father, vague reference to filming sexual activities

In no particular starting order, here we go:

Horstmayer is the tidiest. He folds laundry with straight lines, and the bed linens are perfectly tucked in the corners of the mattress and bed frame.

Audebert isn’t as focused on those details - not because he’s slovenly, but it’s more of an absent-minded artist thing. But, at least he puts laundry away and makes the bed. It’s better than:

Gordon, the bed cover thief, who never misses an opportunity to destroy the neatly-made bed. Or, to cuddle and snuggle his bedmates. He’s almost never alone in bed, but if he is, he’s wrapped up like a burrito. Otherwise, the other two have gotten used to a Gordon-shaped attachment under the pile of stolen bed covers.

Audebert is more open to the sleepy snuggles, especially on winter nights.

Horstmayer is far more particular, mainly because Gordon sleeps in the middle of the bed. He’s woken up one too many nights on the verge of overheating from a dead-asleep Gordon cuddled up behind him. But every time he wiggles out of Gordon’s grasp and rolls him over, Audebert is there to embrace the sleeping Scotsman. However, on the coldest winter nights, Horstmayer will admit that it’s only practical to share body heat, and those are his favorite nights to wake up and feel Gordon’s gentle exhales against the nape of his neck.

Horstmayer could do without Gordon’s proclivity for stealing bed covers, though. Neither he or Audebert have managed to figure out how the older man steals all the covers to the middle of the bed only to leave them both exposed to the cool night air. Even if one of them does get up to find more blankets in the middle of the night, those also inevitably wind up in the Gordon pile.

It’s a great mystery that Audebert and Horstmayer have discussed at length over coffee when it’s Gordon’s turn to pick up breakfast pastries from the shop around the corner. They discuss setting up a camera in the bedroom, but that comes with far more intimate implications that should really involve all three of them

They’ve both tried to stay awake to see how it happens, but of course, they always end up falling asleep before any cover stealing takes place. Even more perplexing is the fact that even when Gordon isn’t in the middle of the bed, he still winds up in a big pile of bed covers. This usually chases Audebert into Horstmayer’s arms mainly for warmth’s sake.

Those are the snuggles that Horstmayer is never grumpy about, no matter the season. They have to stand together in solidarity against their resident cover thief, after all, and rib Gordon about it just a little.

For his part, Gordon feels no shame about it, even if it does mean less cuddle time. Though, after a particularly rough or bad day, it would stick him just a little that Audebert gets to enjoy more Horstmayer snuggles than he does.

But on those days, Audebert is always the first to try and make Gordon feel better. And with just one flash of his chocolate eyes at Horstmayer, the German would cuddle up to Gordon with a reassuring hold and soft kisses along his neck.

And speaking of those chocolate eyes…. The Aude Eyes (™) are Gordon’s and Horstmayer’s absolute, ultimate weakness. It’s stronger than Puss in Boots’ eyes, and neither man stands a chance against it. Any resolve they may have had just flies out the window when Audebert hits them with that look.

It’s a great mystery that Horstmayer and Gordon have discussed at length on the golf course (more on this later). Horstmayer is particularly baffled by the strong effect of The Aude Eyes (™) because he’s not that moved by cute things, and he’s the last person to fawn over cute dogs in the park. Gordon admits to dreading The Aude Eyes (™) because he knows they’re impossible to resist, and he will crack first every time and yes, he fawns over cute dogs in the park.

Fortunately, Audebert is well aware of the power in The Aude Eyes (™), so he’s careful in his deployment of the expression. That won’t stop him from exploiting it when it suits his purpose, though.

See above case when Gordon has a bad day. It’s nothing personal against Horstmayer, but as the youngest of the three, he has the least emotional intelligence, and he isn’t the best at picking up who’s had a bad day and needs what emotional/physical comfort or support.

But, to be fair, they all struggle with discussing their emotions and feelings.

With the most life experience, Gordon is the most willing to get the ball rolling, but he’s not entirely comfortable with it despite the open, understanding home that he grew up in.

Audebert is by far the most emotional of the three, but after years of verbal abuse from his father on the subject, he’s spent a long time suppressing his emotions. He feels the most guilt and insecurity when he openly confesses his feelings to his lovers - as if he’s just waiting for his father to come through the window with another stern reprimand - but he always, only finds warm hugs and hand holds, instead. Even though it’s hard for him, he knows that he’s perfectly safe to speak his feelings with Gordon and Horstmayer.

Horstmayer has feelings, of course, but he’s just… not good… at putting them into words? It’s just something that he’s never thought much about, and since he’s far more logic-driven than emotion-driven, it doesn’t occur to him to verbalize them. It’s not something his stoic father ever does, but Horstmayer doesn’t have anything against it.

Even though talking about their feelings isn’t the easiest for any of them, Gordon is the best at getting Audebert and Horstmayer to open up, and give and receive love.

In return, Audebert’s love language is giving gifts. He always leaves little doodles on the bottom of any hand-written note, and a drawer in their bedside table is full of drawings that he has gifted to both Gordon and Horstmayer over time.

Horstmayer isn’t one to waste his time or effort on useless endeavors, so he shows his love with the gift of time. Both Audebert and Gordon know the significance of the gesture when the younger man chooses to spend time with them, whether it’s listening or just observing.

At first, Audebert wasn’t sure what to make of Horstmayer’s propensity to watch him draw, but now, it’s such a warm comfort. Especially since Horstmayer’s not the biggest fan of the arts, but he’ll readily go to the opening of the newest art gallery exhibition in town just to watch Audebert’s eyes light up as the Frenchman studies the artwork and explains the hidden meanings that are lost on Horstmayer.

And now, we come to the golf course: it’s a cliche that irritates Gordon to no end, but it doesn’t change the fact that he loves a casual game of golf. When Horstmayer tags along for nine holes just to watch Gordon swing his driver and get surprisingly worked up over a missed putt - especially when Horstmayer manages to do better than him… well, those moments are truly special.

Cliche aside, though, Gordon is the sportiest/most athletic of the three. Particularly any sport that he lets him be with his best guys, socialize, and have a good time.

Croquet certainly qualifies, but they have to be careful with that game. Epic, nit-picky arguments have ensued over games of croquet.

And board games - for reasons they don’t revisit, they never play Risk.

Horstmayer is the biggest stickler for the rules, and Gordon just wants a fair but fun game, while Audebert is usually just “close enough”.

It’s why they stay away from strategy-heavy board games, even though the luck-based ones irritate Horstmayer more.

However, Horstmayer has the world’s best poker face. He wins nearly every hand whenever the three of them are brave enough to play poker together.

Gordon has made it his personal mission to figure out Horstmayer’s tells, but he’s wrong each and every time and it’s cost him many a floor mopping and rubbish bin collection

It’s a great mystery that Gordon and Audebert have discussed at length over many a late-night nightcap after Horstmayer deems the last drink too reckless and heads upstairs to bed.

But it’s not all just entirely about them - they have a cat. Or, rather, Audebert has a cat (he’s 100% a cat guy since they’re not so needy or dependent on him (blame his childhood for that))

Both Gordon and Horstmayer blame The Aude Eyes (™) for the continued presence of said cat in their shared home, but they’ve gotten over it (mostly).

Gordon would much prefer a dog, and he’s holding that card in reserve until he finds just the right puppy to bring into their home.

Horstmayer wouldn’t mind a cat in their home if the little scoundrel didn’t leave cat hair on everything. Of course, Audebert just had to fall in love with a cat whose hair somehow clashes with EVERYTHING Horstmayer has in his closet. He keeps lint rollers stationed throughout the house - he’s even threatened Audebert with investing in a lint roller company. Still, no matter how he tries, he always leaves the house with cat hair visible on his clothing.

But Gordon’s always the first to kiss the frown off his face, and Audebert the first to wrap him in a warm hug… and, alright. Despite the cat hair, life really couldn’t be much better.

Bonus:

Whenever Gordon’s doing house chores (washing dishes, mopping the floor, etc.), 10 times out of 10, he’s humming or singing under his breath; and, 9 times out of 10, it’s a traditional Scottish song.

Audebert and Horstmayer have their favorites and can even hum or sing along to a couple of them (if they’re within earshot and feel so inclined, that is).

But once they learn of a song called “A Gordon for Me”, they never let Gordon hear the end of it. Literally - neither the Frenchman or German consider themselves much of a singer, but they both go out of their way to learn the tune and chorus to that song. And they never fail to remind Gordon that he’s the only Gordon for them every chance they get.

#joyeux noël 2005 #joyeux noël #karl friedrich horstmayer #mackenzie joseph gordon #camille rené audebert #horstmayer #gordon #audebert #lieutenant horstmayer #lieutenant audebert #lieutenant gordon #headcanon

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leftenantmackgordon · 3 years

Text

Course List

Bienvenue, Welcome, and Willkommen

This list captures my flash fics, mini-series fics, and series fics that inhabit this themed sideblog.

Last Update: 26-July 2022

Main blog norabrice1701

Cheers & Happy Reading, Nora

Headcanons:

Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer HC's No. 1 - Rated Teen

Flash Fics (<1k Words):

Audebert x Horstmayer - Orders - Rated Mature, complete

Mini-Series Fics (1k<>15k):

Pirate!Horstmayer x Fem!Reader AU - Gift - Rated Explicit, complete

Modern Office!AU Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer - Of Differences, Weaknesses & Complements - Rated Explicit, in process

Gordon x Horstmayer - Surrender - Rated Mature, complete

Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer - Hindrance - Rated Mature, complete

Series Fics (>15k Words):

Gordon x Horstmayer - Enemy - Rated Explicit, complete

Titanic-set AU Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer - Crossing the Atlantic - Rated Explicit, complete

Gordon x Audebert (x Horstmayer) - Wings Over My Heart - Rated Explicit, in-process

#joyeux noël 2005 #camille rené audebert #mackenzie joseph gordon #karl friedrich horstmayer #fanfic #list of fics

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leftenantmackgordon · 3 years

Text

Orders

Audebert x Horstmayer Flash Fic

Warnings: Mature sexual arousal references, language

Summary: Camille listens to Karl Horstmayer issue orders, even to his own men.

Word Count: 307

Camille can see the fever that burns Horstmayer’s otherwise pale visage. Sweat clings to the German’s brow, a flush rising high in his cheeks as his body fights infection from the jagged wound in his shoulder. He doesn’t know how the German officer sustained his injury in the assault, and he doesn’t need to.

He just needs to keep Horstmayer alive.

“Ponchel,” he says, turning away from the foreign officer. “Since we have a guest, we need to take stock of rations and water. Please go check and update the inventory, and bring me the latest casualty list.”

Ponchel pauses, obviously stricken at the idea of having less food in favor of feeding a German mouth. He hesitates on the verge of response, and Camille can read the displeasure on the man’s face.

“Quickly, soldier!” Horstmayer barks, his tone officious and unyielding. “Don’t mistake the 'please' - those were orders.”

Ponchel startles at the German’s sharp tone before absently nodding and murmuring his confirmation as he turns away. Even Camille feels a jolt run through him at Horstmayer’s crisp command. It’s not the first time that he’s heard the German officer issue orders, but it is the first time that it’s been directed towards one of his men, and that’s to say nothing of how Horstmayer issued it while burning with fever.

His admiration for the German officer’s strength grows, and forbidden heat licks down his spine. It settles between his legs - and fuck, this is not the time.

Horstmayer’s heavy, irritated sigh sounds behind him. “I strongly suggest that you take a firmer hand with your men. You’re obviously too soft.”

Camille keeps his back turned as he discreetly adjusts the fit of his uniform trousers. If the other man only knew how not soft he truly was, he’d never be able to look Karl Horstmayer in the eye again.

#lieutenant horstmayer #lieutenant audebert #karl friedrich horstmayer #camille rené audebert #horstmayer #audebert #joyeux noël #joyeux noël 2005 #flash fiction #audebert x horstmayer

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leftenantmackgordon · 2 years

Text

Crossing the Atlantic - Ch. 1

A Titanic-set AU Audebert x Gordon x Horstmayer Series

Series Main List

Warnings: Mild language, overbearing parent

Word Count: 2.7k

Ch. 1 - 10 April 1912

The midday sun fills the first class reception salon with cheery light. Scents of rich wood oil and fresh roses perfume the air, greeting the passengers as they step off the gangway and onto the floating wonder that is the Titanic.

In all of Gordon’s years at sea, he’s never seen another ship like her. He’s had the last two weeks to get familiar with his new home and duties as Third Officer serving under First Officer Murdoch, and already he never wants another ship assignment. The Titanic shines from stem to stern, appointed with every last modern advance in shipbuilding and seafaring know-how, and Gordon’s never been more proud to serve a vessel.

The polished, brass buttons of his uniform gleam bright as he consults his clipboard. He scans the passenger manifest for the given name. “Here we are, ma’am.” He looks back at the short, prim woman bedecked in a stylish green traveling suit. “Cabin C-91, Mrs. Graham. A steward will guide you presently.” He gestures at the waiting steward who wears a broad smile. “Welcome aboard, ma’am.”

She nods her thanks and turns for the waiting steward while motioning for her daughter to follow.

Gordon offers the young woman a polite, officious nod. “Welcome aboard, miss.” She returns his polite nod and casts him a flirtatious side-eye. It isn’t the first time a young woman has taken a passing fancy in him, but he knows better than to cavort with a passenger. And a first class passenger, at that.

He turns back towards the steady inflow of passengers, ready to help the next in line. Excited conversation and gentle laughter float in the air, but the man who stands before him now looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else. His silver-grey hair is neatly combed atop his head to complement his trimmed mustache, and his traveling suit displays the finest cut. He scowls at Gordon in clear distaste. “I was told that Captain Smith would personally oversee the boarding arrivals.”

The three gold stripes around the cuffs of Gordon’s navy jacket that identify his rank as Third Officer are suddenly glaringly obvious, but Gordon holds his well-trained smile in place. “Indeed he is, sir. Just there.” He politely nods towards where the captain is greeting passengers as the stewards escort them to their cabins. “If you’re willing to give me your name, please, I can confirm your cabin assignment. Then, the steward will show you to Captain Smith.”

Thinly-veiled disgust flashes in the older man’s eyes, but he holds his socially polite, if mirthless, expression. “Very well. General René Audebert, and my son, Camille Audebert.”

“Thank you, sir.” Gordon nods before consulting his list. He makes the appropriate notation and glances up, this time noticing the taller, younger man standing behind General Audebert. “Cabins B-51, -53, and -55. The parlor suite, sir.”

“Yes,” General Audebert says, clearly unimpressed. “I’m aware of the cabins that I booked, but thank you all the same.” He looks over at the waiting steward, and Gordon is glad to see the man go. Of course, he’s seen his share of arrogant, even rude, men of privilege in his days as a sailor on passenger ships, but he already knows that he doesn’t care to see General Audebert for the rest of the voyage.

The younger man that follows behind the general offers him a small smile and nod as he passes. As he goes, Gordon can’t help but notice the soft sweep of his dark hair and the warmth of his brown eyes. Gordon returns his smile and gives a small nod in greeting. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

“Thank you.” His voice carries the same French-accented syllables as his father but there’s no denying the gentle tone about them. It stirs an unbidden warmth in Gordon’s chest as he holds the man’s gaze for a moment longer before finally turning back to his clipboard.

“Good day, sir.” He greets the next passenger. “Welcome aboard. May I have your name, please?” He listens before offering a confirming nod and consulting his list. “Here you are, Mr. Ross. Cabin A-10. Now, if you’ll please-.”

“Mr. Gordon!”

Gordon snaps his head up, instantly recognizing Captain Smith’s gentle, commanding voice. The Captain motions him over with an expectant air, and Gordon quickly makes his apologies to Mr. Ross. With swift steps, he squares his shoulders and steps up to Captain Smith’s side. “Yes, sir?”

“Why wasn’t I informed of the incident?”

Gordon blinks in confused surprise as he schools the rest of his face. “The incident, sir?”

The captain nods towards the older gentleman. “General Audebert here tells me that the gangway landing is quite uneven. That the lady in front of him nearly lost her footing, and he likely would have, too, if he hadn’t witnessed her struggle.”

Gordon grips his clipboard tighter at his side. His jaw tenses in frustration but he forces his pleasant smile to remain in place. “My apologies, Captain. I shall see to it right away.” He nods at Captain Smith and General Audebert as he knows his duty demands. “If you notice anything else amiss, sir, please don’t hesitate to bring it to my attention.”

Captain Smith nods in dismissal and Gordon turns, irritation simmering beneath his uniform. He pauses just long enough to direct waiting passengers to First Officer Murdoch for their cabin arrangements before setting off in search of the carpenter.

Camille glances around his stateroom. It’s bedecked in all the luxury appointments that he’s come to expect from a life of first class passage, but the plush surroundings do little to put him at ease. Eight days at sea crossing the Atlantic with only his father and father’s friends for company would not be his first choice, but business is business, and the churn of progress waits for no man. As his father’s only son and heir, he has obligations that he knows he cannot escape. Especially as his father continues to age, it’s simply a matter of time until the success of the family enterprise falls squarely on Camille’s shoulders whether he wants it or not.

He doesn’t discount the impact that his family’s wealth has had on his education and opportunities. He’s seen enough of the societal class divisions to understand the privilege that he was born into. But it just makes him think… surely, there has to be a better use for his life than just perpetuating the privilege of his lineage.

He sighs as he adjusts his suit jacket before stepping back out into the sitting room. His father is elegantly seated on the sette, round wire-frame glasses perched on the end of his nose as he reads over what appears to be the day’s paper. A steaming tea service rests on the side table at his elbow in gold-rimmed white china laid out for two. Camille turns from it as the thought of tea sours his stomach.

“Won’t you join me for tea?” René’s voice drifts over his shoulder. “Lunch isn’t until after we depart, and our luggage has yet to be delivered.”

Camille reaches for his hat from the chair where he dropped it earlier. “No, thank you. I think I will go have a stroll about the decks.”

René blinks up at him in obvious confusion. “I’ve never understood the appeal of shuffling through a crowd. You should at least wait until we’ve left Southampton.” He turns back to the paper. “You certainly don’t need to demean yourself by waving to the less fortunate crowd still clamoring on the pier.”

Camille grips the brim of his hat tighter. “Actually, I thought about finding the third officer and apologizing for what transpired earlier.”

René’s brow furrows as he glares over the top of the paper. “Apologize? The man was remiss in his duties if he allowed paying passengers to walk on that gangway.”

“You didn’t give the man a chance to address your concern,” Camille shakes his head. “You just reported him straight to his commanding officer.”

“It’s hardly any concern of mine if that officer chooses to be derelict in his duties, but his commanding officer had every right to be informed.”

Camille sighs and fits his hat on his head. “I know that’s what you believe.” He steps up to the stateroom door and opens it to the hallway. “I’ll return in time for lunch.” He doesn’t wait for a reply before he closes the door behind him.

Shoving a hand in his trousers pocket, he sets off at a leisurely pace down the hallway. Passengers move about, settling into their staterooms and journeying topside for the imminent departure. Porters wheel trolleys of trunks to and fro, making the appropriate deliveries to identified staterooms. Stewards bustle about delivering the newly created passenger list, and Camille dreads returning to the stateroom once his father peruses the list and determines who all needs to dine at their table.

He weaves through the spotless halls and finds himself back in the boarding reception salon. The gangway door sits secured in place but the briny and fumey smell of the port outside still lingers. Two seamen make final adjustments on the door’s closure, and a small smile comes to Camille’s face when he glimpses the third officer presiding over their work.

“Secure the last locking mechanism.” The officer says with a dutiful air. “Nice and tight, now.”

“Yes, sir.” One of the seamen replies as they continue to work.

Camille watches with interest, tracking the movements of the sailor’s hands as the long screw of the locking mechanism twists into place. Blurred motion of the third officer’s navy uniform draws his attention, and Camille meets the full force of those bright, watercolor blue eyes. The officer’s mouth curls to a surprisingly warm, perhaps even pleased smile, as he tips his head in greeting. “Good morning again, sir. Mr. Audebert, if I remember correctly?”

Camille nods and smiles despite himself. “Yes, you… you have a good memory.”

The officer tilts his head in appreciation, and Camille thinks that maybe a faint flush rises in the man’s cheeks before he turns back to the sailors. They stand with their task complete, and the officer makes a quick inspection of their work. “Well done,” he nods at the two men. “Now, get topside and prepare to shove off.”

They snap off crisp replies before disappearing down the hallway and into a hidden crew passage. With slow steps, the third officer turns towards him wearing another pleasant smile. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Audebert?”

Camille can’t say why he suddenly finds himself at a loss for words, but a small smile comes to his face under the weight of the Scotsman's infectious smile. “I… just wanted to apologize. My father should not have called you out in front of your captain without raising the issue to your attention first.”

The officer’s jaw tenses as his eyes soften with an emotion that Camille can’t place. Slowly, almost conflicted, the man nods. “You needn’t apologize for that, sir. It’s… well, I suppose he was within his right.”

“On that, we shall disagree.” Camille simply says, inexplicably drawn to the way the officer’s lips curl in shared understanding. Though the officer had done a commendable job of hiding his frustration during the boarding process, Camille can tell the man is grateful for his apology now even if he can’t say anything in their current setting.

Slowly, the officer nods again. “I appreciate that you took the time to speak with me, but unfortunately, I must head for the bridge to support our departure.”

“May I walk with you?” Camille can’t say for sure why he asked, but he isn’t ready to return to the stateroom just yet, nor part from this man’s company.

The officer looks torn in a moment of indecision between surprise and flattery, but he keeps careful guard of his facial expressions. It’s probably an important skill of his job when dealing with all manner of passengers. Camille’s happy to wait while the man deliberates, and when he finally nods, warmth flutters in Camille’s chest.

“That’s very kind of you to offer, sir.” The officer starts. “But I wouldn’t wish to impose-.”

“No imposition,” Camille reassures as he falls into step at the officer’s side. “I was thinking of going topside for the departure.”

“It is indeed a good day for that. Southampton is usually rather hazy, even when the weather is favorable.”

Camille casts him a curious glance. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been a sailor?”

A fond smile teases the officer’s mouth. “Since I was a wee bairn, my father had me on the water. Standing still on land just never felt right.”

Answering fondness blooms in Camille’s chest as they leave the stateroom hallway behind and the atrium of the Grand Staircase stretches before them. “Well, it sounds like the Titanic is lucky to have a man of your experience aboard.” He watches the officer fight to suppress another flattered smile as Camille moves with him up the stairs. “Though, it just occurs to me that I don’t know your name.”

“Gordon, sir.” The officer supplies with a bow of his head. “Third Officer Mackenzie Gordon, at your service.”

Camille returns the nod in formal greeting. “It’s an honor, Mr. Gordon. I know that my father gave you my name but… I’m Camille Audebert.”

Gordon flashes him a polite smile. “The honor is mine, Mr. Audbert. You… certainly don’t need to take the time to converse with me.”

“I’m more than happy to do so.” Camille sighs gently. “I’m well aware of the conversations that await me over the next eight days aboard your ship, and you are a refreshing change of pace.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” The corner of Gordon’s lips twitch with an air of intriguing mischief. “If you don’t mind me saying, I may have to use that line sometime.” Another flush rises high in the man’s cheeks, and Camille finds that he wants to chase it across Gordon’s skin. “No one’s ever said that I’m a refreshing change of pace… a right pain in the arse, more like.” He blanches as he realizes what he just said and comes to an abrupt stop as they reach the sunshine warmed deck. He glances up at Camille with fear-stricken eyes. “Please, sir, forgive the rude slip of my tongue. That… was completely uncalled for in the face of the generosity that you have shown me.”

Camille shakes his head with a calming smile. “No offense taken, Mr. Gordon. I’m not going to report you as my father did. In fact… your candor rather proves my point.” He meets the officer’s smile for another moment before blinking away as the cheerful calls from the surrounding passengers rise in his ears. “Thank you for letting me walk with you, but I don’t wish to keep you from your duties.”

Gordon forces a nod as regret comes to the lines of his eyes. “Thank you. Again, I appreciate that you took the time.” He pauses as if debating the wisdom of his next words before drawing a breath. “As you mentioned earlier, we have eight days until we put into New York, and a ship this size is only so big - I’m sure that we’ll see each other yet again.”

Camille can’t hold back the excited edge in his smile as nods. “I look forward to it.”

With a farewell tip of his head, Gordon turns to continue his walk towards the bridge. Camille watches him go and recognizes the spark of interest that blooms in his chest. It’s been a long time since he last let himself even consider indulging such a personal attraction, but his stomach sours to think of not seeing Mackenzie Gordon again. Instead, he summons a smile as he thinks about the next eight days ahead. Maybe… just maybe he’s found the perfect balm in the face of his father’s company.

He moves through the crowded deck to the railing and glances out over the busy port. The pier is lined with well-wishers waving their arms in vigorous motions, and he watches the heavy ropes cast away from the ship. Allowing himself a hopeful smile, he raises an arm and returns a hearty wave of his own.

Series Main List

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leftenantmackgordon · 2 years

Text

Wings Over My Heart - Pt. IV

A 1936 Things to Come AU Gordon x Audebert (x Horstmayer) Fic

Series Main List

Warnings: Explicit non-con sexual threats, non-con touching, explicit language, violence and graphic torture (including descriptions of thumb screws and flogging), dystopian re-imagining of WWI and aftermath, generous re-use of dialogue from the film, no need to have seen the film

Word Count: 4.1k

Pt. IV -

Karl’s head spins as he leaves the detention cell and heads for his quarters. He tugs at the top buttons of shirt as if that will help his raging thoughts.

The aviator’s - Audebert’s… Camille’s - words loop in his mind. How wonderful would it be to travel with Camille and in a matter of hours, arrive at some foriegn destination that seemed forever out of his reach? What would life be like in a world devoted to peace instead of war? The concept seems so alien to him as he takes the stairs up to the old Town Hall’s upper levels.

When The Commander appropriated the building as his glorified palace, he installed himself, Karl, and a few other key officers in the former upper level offices. The best furniture was scavenged from the town’s ruins, and his room outfitted as befits a leader of men. Karl certainly couldn’t deny that’s what he was in his role serving The Commander, but… what would be like to lead men in peaceful pursuits? Where creation was valued over destruction?

He keeps seeing the warm conviction in Camille’s eyes, keeps hearing the hopeful surety in Camille’s voice. They stood so close together in the dank cell, and he’d never… well, he’d never been so tempted to act upon urges that weren’t condoned. He’d wanted to reach out for Camille’s hand, to taste the assured man’s words on his tongue, to fall into the security of Camille’s arms and the world that he promised.

Even now, heat still lingers on his skin, itching beneath his clothes as he recalls the taller man’s handsome face lit in the paltry candlelight. Karl doesn’t usually indulge the baser urges of his body, but maybe… maybe just for one night, he can take himself in hand and imagine all that life could be with Camille at his side.

He rounds the corner down the hallway and stops short. All pleasant thoughts disappear from his mind at the sight of Sprink standing sentry outside the door to his quarters. The taller man is obviously waiting for him, and when his gaze connects with Karl’s, a distinctly unsettling smile darkens Sprink’s face.

Karl forces a hard swallow and steels himself as he continues down the hall.

“Major Karl Horstmayer,” Spink says with an insufferable smile. “You better have a good excuse for keeping The Commander waiting.”

Karl’s stomach drops to his feet. Seeing The Commander right now is the last thing he wants, but rarely gets what he wants. He nods quickly. “Then, I’ll go see him presently.”

Sprink’s face twists with wicked glee, as if he can’t wait for the outcome of Karl’s meeting. He doesn’t pause for the taller man to respond before stepping around him to continue down the hall. As far as Karl’s concerned, Sprink can stand there all night.

He reaches the door to The Commander’s quarters, the largest office at the end of the hall. He pauses to straighten his jacket but decides against buttoning up the top few buttons of his shirt. He knocks on the door with a short, solid motion, and waits until The Commander bids him entry.

As he steps into the well-appointed room, The Commander lounges in one of two overstuffed wingback chairs opposite a roaring fire in a barrel. Not overly elegant, perhaps, but they have to make do in a world of no electricity. The older man glances up at Karl with a welcoming look. Perhaps a little too welcoming for Karl’s taste as he speaks. “Horstmayer, my boy. About damn time.”

Karl folds his hand behind his back and tips his head. “My apologies, sir. I came as soon as I heard that you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that,” The Commander dismisses easily as he motions to the plush chair next to him. “Take a seat.”

Karl’s hackles rise in discomforting suspicion, and he crosses the room on careful steps to take a seat.

Rudolf lounges back in his chair with distinct pleasure. His cheeks are ruddy from the fire and probably the ale, if Karl has to guess. No doubt the feast tonight has bolstered his ego, and honestly, Karl’s surprised that he doesn’t have one of those starry-eyed young women warming his bed. The older man fixes him with a curious gaze for a long moment before speaking. “Tonight was a banner celebration - a toast to our triumph over the Hill State that is almost at its glorious conclusion!” He shakes his head low and slow. “And you… you who led our men into the fray, you who serve me so loyally… just left the festivities never to return.”

Karl remembers how the ale had soured his stomach, and he knows it’s best to be honest. “Yes, sir.” He nods quickly. “The ale didn’t agree with me.”

Rudolf nods in consolation as he frowns. “I know it’s tough, my boy. The smell of blood clings to my nose, too, but we mustn’t let it prevent us from losing sight of what we have. Of celebrating what we have achieved together. Now,” he smacks his lips. “I want you to tell me where you were tonight.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down Karl’s spine. He stiffens against the comfortable chair, recognizing the trap. Everything from Rudolf’s word choice to the sharp gleam in his eyes indicates that he already knows the answer. He’s deliberately testing Karl’s loyalty, and indignation flares in Karl’s chest as he answers. “I went to speak with the prisoner.”

Rudolf nods slowly as his scowl deepens. “That’s right. Now, why would you forsake an evening of celebration with your Commander for the company of a sad delusional man?”

“I wanted to find out what that cold, foreign invader means.” Karl uses The Commander’s early words to describe Camille. “Each day that we wage war against the Hill State and celebrate in return is another day that his people’s factories in Basra are producing more airplanes.”

The Commander arches a confused brow. “Basra?”

“His headquarters, sir.” Karl hedges carefully. “He… mentioned it that first day in your main chamber-.”

“I remember perfectly what he said to me! Don’t use this late hour as an excuse to get insolent, boy!”

“Of course not, sir. My apologies for any implied insinuation.” Karl straightens his back as he holds The Commander’s gaze. “But I strongly suggest that we reconsider our position in relation to his - for the sake of our own survival, if nothing else.”

The Commander snorts in disgust. “Don’t let that man fill your head with poppycock! What that man says is arrogant bluff!”

“What he says is true,” Karl insists. “We should make peace with the airmen, and him - and let him go before his people unleash a force against us that we couldn’t possibly hope to compete with. Especially given the quality of Audebert’s airplane.”

A sharp silence descends as The Commander glares at Karl in growing fury. All too late, Karl realizes the grave mistake he made in saying the aviator’s name. The Commander’s broad fingers clench against the armrest as anger blazes in his eyes. “You know that damnable man’s name? You dare to use it in front of me, as if that man deserves any of my respect?!”

Karl quickly shakes his head. “That wasn’t my intention, sir. I didn’t mean-”

“You meant plenty!” The Commander rises to his feet, but Karl knows better than to follow. If The Commander wants to dress him down, well… at least, the vantage point will be right. Karl braces for something - anything - as The Commander steps closer.

Strong fingers grasp his jaw and forcefully tilt his head back. Karl doesn’t wince at the too-tight grip of The Commander’s hand as the older man bores his eyes through Karl’s. “Now see here,” Rudolf growls in pure frustration. “You have proved yourself a man worthy of my favor - you’ve fought beside me time and time again. Your position here is a reward for your service, but never forget that it can be stripped from you just as quick!”

Karl knows better than to speak until The Commander has had his fill, but he refuses to cower or feel ashamed of his conversation with Camille. He holds The Commander’s gaze with firm determination despite the shiver that ripples across his skin as the older man’s face twists in a savage snarl.

“In fact,” The Commander hisses, “we should do something about that pride of yours!” His broad hand abandons Karls jaw and lands on the back of his head. In the same motion, Rudolf steps forward and drags Karl forward to smash the younger man’s face against his crotch. Rudolf grunts with a burst of sudden pleasure as Karl instinctively recoils against the feel of the half-hard cock through the older man’s trousers.

The Commander thrusts his hips against Karl’s face with another grunt. “How proud would you be gagging on my cock, hmm?” He gives another firm roll of his hips as revulsion rots Karl’s stomach. “How proud would you be on all fours, stripped bare and stuffed full of my seed?”

Karl’s fingers dig into his thigh, resisting every urge to fight back and worsen the situation, as Rudolf’s cock hardens against his nose and mouth. The older man grunts in pleasure again with another hard roll of his hips. “Never forget,” he gasps. “That with just one word I could make you my personal cock-warmer, and no one would think twice to question my orders.” The hand on the back of Karl’s head screws into his hair with uncomfortable pressure. “And I’d make sure that you’d be just as eager to serve me in that capacity as you always have… your mouth would look so lovely, red and raw and leaking my spend…”

With an abrupt motion, he yanks Karl’s head away and steps back. Karl’s head spins from the throbbing pain on the back of his skull and the sudden change in position as he finally breathes free of The Commander’s suffocating presence. He doesn’t dare meet Rudolf’s gaze as the man’s words loop in his mind, and Karl’s stomach lurches.

“You may go, Karl.” The Commander says with a dark note of finality as he strides towards his bedroom door. “Unless you want to volunteer for the position, then I suggest that you go have a good, long think about where your loyalties lay.”

The first hunger pangs hit Camille’s stomach. He rises from the pitiful chair in his cell and walks over to the tiny window inlaid with wrought-iron bars. It won’t be long now until his fellow airmen arrive. He can only hope that Mackenzie is among them - no doubt his beloved has been beside himself. All too well, he remembers when Mackenzie was 45 hours delayed from his return to Basra, not because he was held captive but instead treated to an all-night feast of drunken revelry.

Unlike Camille, Mackenzie hadn’t needed to take his emergency supply of sustenance tablets. They weren’t good to use for an extended period of time, but World Communications had a strict 72-hour window for search and rescue. With the efficacy of his sustenance tablets waning, Camille looks forward to the expiration of that 72-hour window and the arrival of his fellow aviators to help set this part of the country to rights.

The rusted, squeaky lock of the cell door sounds, drawing his attention. Two guards step in, and Camille’s brow furrows to notice their lack of food tray. The taller, burlier man gestures at Camille. “You’re to come with us.”

Camille arches a brow in surprise. “Am I to be granted another audience?”

Neither guard answers him, but Camille steps forward and follows them out of the dingy detention cell. They lead him further down the stone corridor and descend another curving staircase. As they go deeper into the building’s bowels, Camille wonders at the history of this building to have such a basement structure.

His stomach drops to his feet when they reach their destination. He’s familiar with the implements of torture from bygone eras of the World-That-was, but he’s never seen such a collection amassed in one place. Two iron maidens stand ominous vigil in veiled shadows; a breaking wheel rests in one corner of the room, and yet another table is outfitted with thumb screws and flaying knives. In the middle of the room, a large rack table dominates with its arm and leg shackles, and oversized turning wheels.

In the middle of the frightful scene, The Commander presides with calm ease. Fear ripples down Camille’s spine as he glances around, also noticing Karl standing in quiet obedience against the far wall. He catches the younger man’s gaze, but Karl looks stoically ahead.

Camille is led before The Commander, and the silence in the room threatens to deafen him. At long last, The Commander turns to look at him. “Well, Mr. Wings Over the World,” he starts low and mocking. “It’s come to this.”

Camille offers a short nod. “It would seem that way.”

“I’ll have you know that it’s been suggested that I make peace with you and your ilk. That, in doing so, I should surrender my Sovereign State that I have sacrificed much to build.” He spits each word with vehement distaste. “And to that I say - never!”

“Never is a powerful word,” Camille cautions. “New airplanes for our order are rising night and day, buzzing like hornets around a hornet’s nest.” He casts a wary glance around the crude tortue chamber, summoning his courage. “What happens to me is a small affair. But make no mistake that they’ll finish you. The new world of united airmen will finish you.” He holds The Commander’s gaze and forces a small smile, thinking of Mackenzie on his way to the rescue. “If you listen closely… you can almost hear them now….”

“I hear nothing but the sound of your perpetual blustering!” The Commander roars. “There’s no making peace between you and me. It’s your world or mine - and it’s going to be mine.” He leans in close, jutting his jaw as he glares at Camille. “And for all of your threats about swarms of hornets and so on - just remember that you’re the hostage here. My hostage, in fact… so don’t be too sure that you’ll win. Guards!” He doesn’t take his eyes off Camille. “Bind his hands in the thumb screws!”

The guards are on him before he can mount a resistance, and they drag him over to the table lined with torture implements. His wrists are fastened in fixed shackles that leave his fingers vulnerable and exposed against the rough wooden surface. He pulls ineffectually against his bonds as adrenaline races through him, helpless but to watch from his stooped position as the guards place his fingers through the middle of two, large vices. There’s precious little room between the vice’s upper edge attached to a turnscrew, and Camille knows it won’t take much before the pressure bears down with crushing force. His heart pounds as he struggles to keep his composure.

The Commander steps up to the table and settles a large hand over one of the turnscrews, tapping a finger against the rough metal. “Despite what you may think, this room doesn’t get used all that much.” He sniffs, looking casually around as if the torture implements surrounding him were commonplace. “Its primary purpose is only when we capture enemy spies who seek to undermine my authority - much as you have done!” He gives the thumbscrew a harsh turn, and the vice compresses Camille’s fingers. He hisses at the unpleasant sensation, but he knows it’s going to get worse. Much worse

The Commander watches his facial expression all the while, giving Camille a distinctly uneasy feeling. “Guards,” The Commander calls out again, still transfixed on Camille’s face even as he points a finger at Karl. “Seize him!”

Camille whips his gaze around, but it’s too late. The guards swarm Karl before the stunned man can even react. Karl’s arms are swiftly immobilized and the jacket ripped from his shoulders. Camille jerks against his bonds desperate to help as Karl’s shirt is also stripped away to leave him bare-chested. The tightening pressure of the thumbscrew on his left hand draws his attention back with a pained gasp, only to see the sadistic gleam in The Commander’s gaze.

“Why are you doing this?!” Camille demands, flushed and breathing hard as both his hands throb.

The Commander leans forward. “Because you refuse to see. Because you refuse to help me get my airplanes flying. And because…” he drops his voice to a sinister register. “He called you by name.”

The clanking of chains and shackles sounds around the room, and Camille turns in horror to see Karl chained, face-down, against the rack table. Each wrist is shackled above his head, elongating his arms and his torso down to where each ankle is also shackled. The muscles of his back work in the low firelight as he tests and twists against his bonds.

Pain shoots up Camille’s arms as each thumbscrew is given another hard twist before The Commander steps away. Camille cries out as he tries to instinctively pull away from the pain, but his bonds refuse to yield. In the tense moment, his gaze finds Karl’s eyes wide with fear and panic. Camille never wanted it to come to this - he shouldn’t have let it come to this. He gulps hard, powerless as The Commander approaches the rack table.

“I’m sorry that you got yourself tangled in this mess, Karl, my boy.” The Commander starts with a heavy shake of his head. “Originally, I had plans to put Mr. Aviator - or, should I say Mr. Audebert - on the rack, but then I thought… you’re much better suited.” He glances back at his guards. “One hand each on Mr. Audbert’s thumbscrews - but only on my command.”

Camille trembles with a shuddering breath as the guards flank him, and The Commander reaches behind the rack, just out of view. He withdraws a long cat o’ nine tails that makes Camille freeze in horror.

“M-my Commander, sir.” Karl’s voice trembles. “I-I have thought long and hard about our conversation last night - and, I never should have doubted you. I never should have usurped-!” His words tear off in an anguished cry as The Commander flares the whip out and brings it down across the bare skin of Karl’s back. Bloody stripes of ripped skin streak across Karl’s back as he stiffens against his bonds. Again, The Commander lets the whip fly in another bloody arc across Karl’s back, flaying more skin as Karl’s heart-wrenching cry echoes off the stone.

“Stop!” Camille cries. “He’s done nothing! I’m the one you want!”

The Commander turns towards his men, pointedly ignoring Camille. “Give another turn of the screws.”

Camille’s pained scream echoes in tandem with Karl’s as the whip again streaks across his bare flesh. Karl shakes and shivers against his bonds, uncontrollably weeping against the severe pain as The Commander leans close. He shakes his head as a twisted, aroused smile mangles his face in the firelight. “Do you have any idea… how good you look like this, hmm?” His nose is almost close enough to brush Karl’s hair, yet his voice is pitched high-enough for Camille to hear every word. “But I think we can make you look even better yet…”

He drapes the whip over his shoulder and his hands wrap around Karl’s waist to work at his trousers.

“N-no,” Karl stammers as he trembles. “P-please…” His pleas fall on The Commander’s deaf ears as his trousers and underwear are pulled down to his ankles. Even in the low light, Camille can see the embarrassed shame that burns Karl’s skin as one of The Commander’s hand gropes between his legs while the other snakes back to grab the swell of Karl’s backside.

“Enough!” Camille pleads. “Let him go! Let him go, and I’ll-”

“Guards!” That’s all it takes for the pressure to multiply on his fingers, ripping another tormented scream from Camille’s chest. The bones feel close to fracturing and tears roll freely down his cheeks as pain consumes him. He forces a choking sob, blinking through tears to watch The Commander finally withdraw his hands from Karl’s exposed body.

But then, The Commander takes the whip in hand and runs it teasingly along the round globes of Karl’s behind. Camille shakes his head, utterly helpless as The Commander raises the whip high and strikes it across the sensitive skin.

More bloody lines tear across Karl’s skin, and his voice cracks from the force of the scream.

A loud, banging thud comes behind Camille, just audible over the rush of blood in his ears. “My Commander!” A new voice calls out, echoing in the stone chamber. “We’re under attack!”

Hope sparks in Camille’s chest. Could it really be…?

With obvious reluctance, The Commander lowers the whip to his side as he turns with a look of angry confusion. “Under attack? Nonsense! The Hill State has no army left to speak of - we saw to that!”

“It’s not the Hill State, sir.” The new arrival sounds distinctly panicked. “It’s large, black airplanes - j-just like his, sir,” the man jabs an accusing finger at Camille. “Except larger and they’re… they’re dropping gas bombs, sir!”

Outrage explodes on The Commander’s face as he drops the whip and turns from the rack, leaving Karl forgotten in his wake. “Come along, men!” He motions to the guards flanking Camille. “We’ll deal with these invaders, then return to finish what we started here!”

He leads his men out of the torture chamber, leaving Camille and Karl miserably trapped. Karl’s soft cries and whimpers sound in the silence, and Camille’s heart breaks. He tries to think beyond his own near-crippling pain, grasping for words. “Karl… I am… so sorry for this. For all of it.” He hiccups and shakes his head, hissing as his jerks against his bonds and more white-hot pain erupts in his hands. “I wish… I wish that I’d never come here.”

“D-don’t say that,” Karl whispers weakly with a trembling voice. “I-I… it’s worth it to have m-met you.”

Camille shakes his head pitifully as he takes in the freely bleeding wounds across Karl’s bare body. “I’m not worth that, Karl. Nobody is.”

Karl draws a sharp inhale, wincing and gasping in pain at the small movement. “A-as long as your people… don’t let him win-” He breaks off with another pained whimper. “As you said - W-we… forever.”

Camille’s heart goes out to the younger man across the room, and he’s never wanted to protect and care for someone so fiercely. A fresh wave of burning tears wet his eyes as his heart leaps to his throat. “I… we will get out of here, Karl. We will not let him win.” He knows it’s true, but it’s so hard to believe through the searing pain in both of his hands. But as bad as his pain is, he knows that Karl’s must be so much worse.

“Commandant Audebert?!” A far-away voice echoes off the stone, so faint, but so heart-achingly familiar. The last of Camille’s strength crumbles as the familiar voice of his beloved calls out again. “Camille?!”

“Down here! In here!” He does his best to raise his voice over his labored breathing and pained tears. “We’re down here!” Camille tries to twist around to see the door, but the movement jostles his aching hands too much.

“God in heaven!” Rushed footsteps sound on the stone behind him, and Camille’s heart melts when Mackenzie Gordon comes into view alongside on the table. “Hold on, love” he urges gently as he glances at the thumbscrews before making quick work of loosening them. “You’re alright, Camille - you’re alright.”

Camille shakes his head desperately. “Not me, I’m fine - I’m fine.” He nods anxiously at Karl. “Help him - he needs it more.”

Mackenzie glances over with a horrified look, obviously torn between leaving Camille still bound to the table and helping the flogged man. Camille offers a firm, reassuring nod as relief spreads through him with the removed pressure of the vices. “I’m fine, just… go tend to him.”

Mackenzie doesn’t argue as he nods and steps away towards the rack. “My God,” he mumbles in outraged horror. “Careful, easy… easy, now.” He loosens Karl’s bonds, the younger man crying out as he jostles and collapses against Mackenzie. “Careful,” the Scotsman cautions, “I’ve got you - you’re safe now, but we don’t want to risk infection from this floor.”

More strong voices and urgent footsteps sound in the corridor, and more of their fellow aviators swarm in. As soon as Camille’s wrists are released, he can’t get over to Mackenzie and Karl’s sides fast enough despite the aching pain in his hands. He throws his arms around both of them, clinging to them for all that’s he worth as his tears flow free, and he never wants to let them go.

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leftenantmackgordon · 2 years

Text

Wings Over My Heart - Pt. III

A 1936 Things to Come AU Gordon x Audebert (x Horstmayer) Fic

Series Main List

Warnings: Dystopian re-imagining of WWI and aftermath, no need to have seen the film, generous quote re-purposing

Word Count: 2.4k

Pt. III -

The sacrifices are many, but in the end, the Sovereign State prevails. The Hill State surrenders the coal and shale pits, and The Commander parades his barrels of unrefined oil (which is hardly petrol) down the main thoroughfare. Despite the heavy casualties incurred, the citizens hail him as a conquering hero and throw a lavish victory feast.

It’s almost more than Karl can stomach. Has acceptance of such high human death tolls become the norm? Would society ever restore to a point where a man’s life was valued in what he could accomplish and produce instead of how he died in the service of war? He sighs as he takes another sip of the sour, bitter ale. The sounds of revelry and celebration echo around him as the feast progresses, but Karl hardly feels in a jovial mood.

Yet again, his thoughts drift to the aviator still locked in the detention room beneath his feet. That man who spoke of wings over the world, and world communications, and serving as the last trustees of civilizations - surely, that man comes from a place where value and worth is placed on a human life. Where men aren’t churned through a constant machine of war always seeking to destroy and conquer.

He takes another sip of his ale, frowning when his shoulders are jostled by the weight of a heavy arm slinging around him. His brow pinches in irritation as he glares up at Sprink.

The taller man flashes an obnoxious grin. “Come on, Major - this is a celebration feast, so let’s see a smile!”

“I’m in no mood,” Karl says, voice tight. “Please remove your arm, and leave me be.”

“Come now, that’s hardly sporting of you.” Sprink chuckles as he raises his own mug of ale. “Of every man here, you should be singing the loudest! With a victory of today’s magnitude, we should have those airplanes flying in no time - you’ll finally achieve The Commander’s objective!”

Karl isn’t so sure that’s the answer, and his lips purse in thinly-veiled annoyance. “The job is more complicated than that. I’m told half of those machines are hopelessly old and will never fly again, and the rest, well… I’m sure it would be easier with the prisoner’s assistance.”

“The prisoner?” Sprink’s face wrinkles with disgust. “The man in black? That Wings Over the World quack?” He shakes his head in confounded disbelief. “You want that man released?”

“He knows his business. I don’t - not for airplanes and aviation, at least.”

“Careful, Karl,” Sprink’s voice takes a dangerous turn. “I think I must have heard you wrong. The Sovereign State is your mother, your father - the totality of your interests. And if The Commander were to learn otherwise, well… I’m sure no discipline can be too severe for the man who denies that by word or deed.”

Before Karl can summon a response, a hearty cry rises from the head table and The Commander stands to his feet. A hush falls over the feast attendees, and Karl raises his gaze to his boss.

“My captains, I greet you.” Rudolf the Victorious addresses the crowd with a sweep of his broad hand. “And I ask you, could anything in life be better than this moment? You’ve faced difficulties and dangers - but now, at this moment of victory, we relax to gather strength for the supreme effort that will make this land forever ours!”

A rousing cheer rises around him, and Karl’s stomach rots at the thought of the next fight, the next war. There’s always another battle, but does there always have to be another battle?

The Commander continues, his eyes bright with conviction. “This is a man’s land that we’re making here - a land for strength and for courage. None but the brave deserve the land, and none but the brave deserve the fair.” He glances down at the young blonde woman who sits next to him, and he cups her cheek appreciatively as she offers a doe-eyed smile. The whole display sours the ale in Karl’s stomach.

The Commander raises his tankard, sweeping the room with his gaze. “Our dear old world! Our dear old land! I know there are some among us who dare to run down our land - saying ‘it isn’t this’, or ‘it isn't that’. And my personal favorite - ‘it isn’t what it used to be.’” He adopts a mocking-whiny tone. “‘They don’t print books anymore!’ Well, I say: who wants books to muddle their thoughts! ‘We can’t travel anymore!’ Well, I say: isn’t our land good enough?!”

Karl ducks out from under Sprink’s arm and starts to walk away, feeling sicker to his stomach than he’s felt in ages. Distantly, he hears the roar of the approving crowd and Sprink’s distant calls after him, but blessedly, the man doesn’t give chase. There’s too many nauseating points in the Commander’s speech that Karl would rather not deliberate aloud.

His memories may be fleeting, but he hears the older folks speak of the World-That-Was so much that he feels like he lived it. The days when food was plenty, when streets were paved, when automobiles had petrol, and people attended the theater. Even in his own mind, those sound like far better days. The days of peace - a life that Karl only saw the last vestiges of before war consumed his life.

And now, that’s all that everyone seems to know. The age of barbarism where civilization is just an after-thought next to how much more can be fought and conquered. His thoughts turn towards the foriegn aviator still locked up in the lower levels, and an uneasy pang shoots through him. All too clearly, he recalls the man’s handsome brown eyes, how they glittered with a sense of purpose and peace that makes jealousy pool in Karl’s stomach.

If there’s even a chance this man can offer him - and everyone here - a better life, how can they not take it?

He finds his feet carrying him down the stairs towards the detention room before he realizes it. The guard recognizes him and opens the cell door without Karl even opening his mouth. It makes it easier to cross the threshold into the prisoner’s cell without having to lie about the purpose of his visit.

The room is dimly lit with a small candle, and the surrounding stone gives off no warmth. Dry hay crunches underfoot against the uneven stone floor as the door closes behind him, and he looks at the prisoner seated in the rickety chair. All the while, those brown eyes that have haunted Karl since the aviator arrived watch him.

Camille’s had no real visitors since his incarceration almost two days ago. The guards only open his cell door to deliver meager trays of half-rotten food and questionable water without saying a word. He doesn’t mind it, really. The tablets he took before leaving Basra protect him against any harmful effects, as well as curb his thirst and hunger. The clock is ticking, and his friends - and Gordon - have not abandoned him.

But, somehow, he isn’t surprised by the presence of the younger man who now stands opposite him. The pitiful candlelight catches in the man’s sharp, amber-brown eyes and plays handsomely off his facial features. He wears a stern, albeit conflicted, expression above his officious looking outfit, and Camille can’t help but wonder if this man has ever had an occasion to smile.

The younger man squares his shoulders as if to project more confidence than he feels. “I wanted to see you.”

Slowly and mindful not to appear threatening, Camille rises to his feet. He bows his head. “I am at your service, sir.”

“Horstmayer.” The younger man says without flinching. “Karl... Horstmayer.”

Camille allows himself a small smile. “Camille Audebert.”

Karl stares back at him like he still can’t believe his eyes. There’s awe and unease in his gaze - Camille’s arrival in new places always inspires that - but there’s also such curious fascination. It captivates Camille as few others have.

Especially as the younger man runs his tongue along his top lip, shaking his head slowly as he speaks. “You’re… you’re the most interesting thing that has happened here for years.”

“You honor me.” Camille again tips his head. “And you flatter me.”

Karl looks taken aback for a quick second as a flush overtakes his cheeks, but he recovers quickly. “But surely, that doesn’t surprise you. You… you come from a different place. You come from outside… I’d-” He stops short, exhaling a sharp sigh. “I’d begun to forget that there was anything outside.”

Camille’s heart warms as he perches against the crude table. “That’s understandable. The larger world has little relevance outside the bounds of everyday survival.”

Indignation flashes across the younger man’s face as he steps closer. “Don’t think that I'm ignorant.”

“I’m sure you’re not.”

“I recognize that this life here is limited. War is… always going on and never ending.” Horstmayer shakes his head with obvious frustration. “The Commander rules with absolute authority - everyone’s flocked to him since he took control in the directionless days, when so many others lost heart. And I recognize that I have a better position than most here in his Sovereign State, with nearly everything that is to be had here. And yet…” Karl breaks off with a heavy sigh. “Your arrival brings in the breath of something greater… the hope of a better world.”

Karl turns abruptly, almost pacing in the small space as Camille continues to listen. “You spoke of the Mediterranean, and your base and factories in Basra. I’ve only ever read about such exotic places - also, Greece, Egypt, India.” He fixes Camille with a shrewd gaze. “I learned a lot before education stopped and the schools closed down, so yes, I can read most of those books from the World-That-Was.” He pauses as he sighs and his shoulders deflate with the motion, as if he’s finally come to the heart of the matter. “Those places have always seemed so far away… so impossible. Like another world… a world that I’ve always wanted to see. With blue seas, palm trees, ancient wonders…”

Camille’s heart leaps to his throat as a smile comes to his face. He holds Karl’s gaze with no room for doubt. “If I had my way, you could fly away to all of that in a couple of hours.”

“You mean…” Karl falters as uncertainty pinches his face and he draws a sharp breath. “If you were free, and if… I was free….” He scoffs and shakes his head, clearly unconvinced about such an impossible notion. He paces a few more steps before turning back to Camille with a serious expression. “What do your people want from us?”

Camille blinks back at him, tilting his head in careful consideration. Even after everything Camille said - and he knows that Karl listened during his meeting with The Commander - does Karl think that Camille’s come here to take by force?

The younger man’s mouth curls with an impatience edge as the silence drags on. His hand tenses at his side before he steps closer, pressing his advantage. “What are you going to do to The Commander?”

Camille casts his eyes around the cell. “The immediate question seems to be what does he intend to do to me?”

“Something violent, and probably foolish… unless I can prevent it.”

The corner of Camille’s mouth lifts. So, that’s why the younger man has come. An ally, an incentive to cooperate. The longer he holds Karl’s keen gaze, the more he wants to place his trust in the younger man. But he also can’t rule out the possibility that Horstmayer might still put his own self-interest first if pressured. Camille crosses his arms against his chest and slowly nods. “That’s how I see things, too.”

Nothing about that answer seems to satisfy Karl. If anything, he looks more concerned as he steps closer in the faint light. “And if he kills you?”

The image of Mackenzie’s face flashes in Camille’s mind, and his heart clenches at the thought of never seeing him again. But this is the risk they both take serving in World Communications, and with high risk, comes high reward. The corner of Camille’s mouth lifts with a sad edge as he speaks. “While I would most certainly have my regrets over the outcome, still, we shall come here and clean things up - just as I said.”

Karl’s brow pinches. “But if you’re dead… how can you say ‘we’?”

Camille searches the handsome lines of the younger man’s face. “I merely represent an idea. I am one man among many, and we are taking hold of things. When we set ourselves to a common objective of an active and aggressive peace, no man is indispensable.” He tries to summon an encouraging smile in the face of Karl’s concern. “That’s how things are. We… forever.”

Karl blinks as he takes in Camille’s words. A conflicted struggle plays out in his eyes, and Camille longs to fold him in a reassuring hug. They’re certainly close enough, he realizes. Close enough to touch if he just reached out a hand, and the thought sends a frisson of heat down his spine as he continues to lose himself in Karl’s lovely eyes. A stab of guilt over Mackenzie cuts through his thoughts, but it just makes him wish that Mackenzie was here to meet Karl for himself. And even more impossibly… that he could somehow have them both…

A loud, dull thud against the floor above him breaks the moment, and Camille shakes back to himself with a startled breath. Even Karl seems unclear as to what just happened or where they are, and he takes a few steps back, similarly trying to collect his breath.

Karl exhales deep, raking a hand through his hair. “And when your people come for you… and find us here… what happens to our Sovereign State?”

“It has to vanish.” Camille says with a firm shake of his head. “Like the Tyrannosaurus and the saber-tooth tiger before it.”

Karl stares back at him, and the younger man’s face slowly hardens. The muscles of his throat visibly work in the faint light before he draws a deep breath. “So, it’s like that, hm?”

Camille holds his gaze, wanting to hold him close, wanting to make Karl understand. At length, he nods. “It must be.”

Yet again, he’s not surprised when Karl turns without another word and leaves the dark squalor of the detention cell.

0 notes

leftenantmackgordon · 2 years

Text

Wings Over My Heart - Pt. II

A 1936 Things to Come AU Gordon x Audebert (x Horstmayer) Fic

Series Main List

Warnings: Dystopian re-imagining of WWI and aftermath, no need to have seen the film, generous quote re-purposing

Word Count: 4.4k

Pt. II -

Karl’s horse clips along at a fair pace. Several people in the well-worn dirt thoroughfare acknowledge his passing, but most continue about their business. A steady hum of activity surrounds him, especially now that the drizzling rain has yielded to mild sunshine. Even after the last year, it’s still an uncommon site for him to see such renewed trade and social vitality.

All too well, Karl remembers his life of war. Born to a world hellbent on destroying itself, the last vestiges of the World-That-Was crumbled around him and all he could do was prepare for the next assault. When the dark days of the worst fighting finally ended, the world sat in utter ruin under the collapse of society and every major government. The old States as Karl knew them - Germany, France, United Kingdom - were now just pages of history. Shadows of the World-That-Was.

Those crumbled ruins - some nameless town of stone and pavement and light and automobiles - surround him now. The Commander of the Sovereign State had staked it as his seat of power when the war-battered civilians and disillusioned soldiers flocked to his strength in those early, leaderless days. Karl had been too swept up in the need for basic survival once his regiment disbanded, and it hadn’t taken The Commander long to learn that Karl was the highest-ranking officer in his newly formed Sovereign State.

It isn’t a bad position, Karl supposes. In a land where comforts are few and far between, serving as The Commander’s right-hand man has its comforts. A solid roof over his head. Clothes that aren’t in tatters. A stuffed, if slightly moldy mattress. As he glances around at his fellow citizens, he knows how lucky he is to have The Commander’s favor, but like everyone around him, Karl makes due with the situation.

It’s why he tips his head to the man riding in the chassis of an indeterminate vehicle that’s pulled by two horses. It’s why women wash clothes in the freshly-collected rainwater, and children make mud pies with no thought to schooling. It’s why he does all that he can to keep The Commander satisfied.

Though, that task is far easier said than done.

Karl trots his horse out towards the edge of the destroyed town, out to the ramshackle collection of airplanes. Each of the eighteen planes are well past their service lives in varying states of damage and disrepair, broken wires catching in the breeze and propellers spinning without purpose. The Commander had paid for the conquest of these aerial machines with a high body count, and Karl doesn’t envy the men now put in charge to restore them - especially when there’s no petrol to be had. Nor does he envy himself having to carry out The Commander’s orders to get these planes flying again.

Karl wets his top lip as he dismounts and turns for the lead mechanic. “What’s the update today?”

The mechanic, Jörg, shakes his heavy head. “We’re focused on fuel pump connections today, Major Horstmayer - trying to scavenge parts from the truly worthless machines in hopes of building at least one functional plane.” He wipes his hand on his already soiled clothes. “But still I tell you, it’s no good - we’ll never get off the ground without petrol.”

“Yes,” Karl agrees. “The Commander is aware of that. Presently, he’s making plans to rectify that situation and bring petrol to our Sovereign State.”

“He can’t just pull petrol from thin air.” Jörg grumbles with another frustrated shake of his head. “I tell you again - flying is over. Civilization is over!” He spreads his hands wide to indicate the dry, native grasses that sway in brown waves around him. “Everything is dead.”

“Not everything is dead.” Karl corrects, standing tall with the authority vested in him. “The Commander has taken action to unite us under a common interest - we are all still alive thanks to his leadership. Now, we need to do our best to support him in return.” He gestures at the closest biplane. “And, right now, The Commander has asked for airplanes to continue the war against the Hill State.”

Jörg blinks at him for a long moment, but eventually, he slowly nods and lowers his arms. “My apologies, Major. I will… try to do my best. For The Commander.” He motions towards another biplane nearby. “She’s the best airplane that I have. Fortunately, she’s a good World-That-Was machine, and with more time… we might have her flight-worthy with or without petrol.”

The corner of Karl’s mouth lifts as he nods. “Thank you, Jörg. I know The Commander will be very pleased with your eff-” His words break off as a low, mechanical buzzing reaches his ears. It sounds… impossibly like an airplane. Has another neighboring State beaten them to achieving functional flying airplanes? Is the Hill State about to unleash a surprise attack? Karl’s brow furrows as the sound continues to rise in the air, and he turns his gaze towards the sky.

“Look!” Jörg cries, pointing up to the clouds. “Just there!”

A sleek, black airplane punches out of the clouds. With it’s elongated tail, and wide, flat wings - it looks like no aircraft that Karl’s ever seen despite his years on the battlefield. His breathing quickens as the foriegn craft banks a wide turn and begins its descent.

“How amazing…” Jörg muses in wonderment. “Somewhere, they’re able to make new airplanes. While we’ve been fumbling, they’ve been active… simply amazing.”

Karl’s face hardens as he tracks the unknown airfact coming in for a landing. Whoever this person is, they are without doubt an intruder - quite possibly an invader - and The Commander will want words. “I need to go greet this visitor.” Karl tells Jörg as he turns for his horse. “Please continue your team’s effort on restoring the planes per The Commander’s instructions.” He doesn’t wait for the mechanic’s response before urging his horse forward.

As he rides, the dark craft touches down and the canopy retracts. When the aviator stands in the cockpit, Karl’s breath catches in his chest. The man - for it is most certainly a man with his helmet removed - is tall and lean, dressed in a shockingly clean and sleek, black flight suit. The dark hair crowning his head is styled and neatly trimmed to match his facial hair as he scans the surroundings before his gaze falls on Karl.

The sight of this new visitor and his aircraft is stunning - something so new, so foreign, so fascinating that Karl can’t even begin to understand. But as he slows his horse and approaches the aviator walking towards him in the rustling sway of dry grass, Karl holds his head high and remembers that he has a job to do.

In the weak sunlight, the aviator’s hair appears black - like his suit, like his airplane - and it makes his brown eyes all the warmer as he tips his head in greeting and glances up at Karl. “Good day,” the man’s words carry an elegant accent - the World-That-Was French, Karl thinks. “Who’s in control of this part of the country?”

“That would be my boss.” Karl says, leaving no room for doubt. “Whom we call The Commander.”

“Good,” the man says with another small nod of his head. “I would like to see them.”

“Actually, I’m here to arrest you.” Karl responds. The Commander has always appreciated a man who takes initiative.

Surprisingly, the man looks nonplussed. “You can’t do that, but I’ll come and see them.”

Karl bristles at the man’s breezy dismissal. “You’re under arrest whether you’ll admit it or not. This country is in a state of war, and you are an uninvited intruder.”

“Then, we needn’t waste more time.” The aviator starts to walk forward towards the town as Karl stares after him.

His jaw tenses with frustration. “It’s a longer walk on foot.”

“Yes,” the man says over his shoulder, words carrying on the breeze. “I didn’t want to cause a full panic by landing in your central square.”

Karl urges his horse into motion and catches up to the aviator’s side, noting the confident stride of the man’s long, black-clad legs. “I’m sure that you’ve already caused enough of a panic,” Karl says. “No one around here has seen an airplane fly in so long…”

“I understand.” The man says, keeping his gaze ever forward. “Tell me, what sort of person is your Commander?”

Karl’s face pinches with suspicion, but he quickly schools his expression. Maybe he can use this moment to his advantage. To show this strange man that they are not to be underestimated. “He’s strong. A man of conviction and purpose. A man who won’t settle and isn’t afraid to take action.”

The wind kicks up dead grass and loose dirt around their feet despite the day’s earlier rain, and Karl starts to sweat when the visitor doesn’t respond. Has he said too much? Or has he perhaps intimidated the man? He chances a glance down at the aviator, drawn to the small smirk that curls the corner of the man’s mouth.

“So, that’s the sort of man your Commander is.” The aviator confirms, nodding his head slowly. “Not an unusual sort, really. Everywhere we find these little, semi-military upstarts robbing and fighting.” Irritation ripples down Karl’s spine as the man continues speaking. “That’s what endless warfare has led to - brigandage.”

Karl’s fingers tighten around his horse’s reins in indignation. “What other outcome could come from it?”

“A dedication to salvage the world. A united Brotherhood of Efficiency, the Freemasonry of Science - all who are left of the old engineers and mechanics, pledging to remake the world.” The aviator turns his handsome eyes on Karl with an odd look of modesty that contrasts with his confident tone. “We have the airways, or what’s left of them. We have the seas, and we have ideas in common. We are the last trustees of civilization when everything else has failed.”

Honestly, Karl doesn’t know what to say to that. It doesn’t sound true - in fact, it sounds impossible. In the face of perpetual war, how could men have banded together to create such a… plan? Or vision? Or a group? Or even airplanes like this man’s? He blinks back at the aviator as they continue to walk. “Who are you?”

“All in good time.” The man cautions with a gentle lift of his lips. “No doubt that is a question that your Commander will ask of me, too.”

“But the things you speak of…” Karl presses. “How is it possible to achieve when war has taken so much, and it continues to take….”

“That is why if we don’t end war, war will end us.” The aviator replies as they approach the edge of the ruined town and the throng of staring people.

At the front of the crowd are several soldiers that Karl knows well, including Sprink at the head of the pack. He glares up at Karl with a distrustful edge. “We’re dispatched to bring the invader to The Commander,” Sprink barks. “We’re also instructed that if he won’t come on foot, then we’re to carry him.”

“This man is in my custody, Sprink.” Karl squares his shoulders as they approach. “I have already informed him that he is under arrest to be brought before The Commander.”

Sprink’s gaze narrows as he darts his gaze to the black-clad aviator. “Then why is he unbound?”

Karl shakes his head, fighting back a wave of frustration as the crowd makes way for them to pass. “The aviator has offered no resistance to his arrest. Nor is he armed. Should he present himself as a threat, we will respond in kind.”

Sprink hardly looks convinced, but he and the other guards fall in behind Karl and the aviator as they continue to walk through the main thoroughfare. When they reach the crumbling remains of Town Hall, Karl dismounts and hands his horse to an attendant before motioning the aviator inside. The guards that flank the central atrium open the majestic double doors and snap to attention as the fur-caped figure of The Commander appears.

With his short stature, it would be easy to underestimate The Commander - Rudolf the Victorious - at first. But the conviction of his actions matches the fire in his eyes and the passion of his words as he rules the Sovereign State. He glances up from his large chair at the long table covered in assorted maps and old books, face creasing with indignant displeasure.

Karl takes up position along the opposite wall, watching as the aviator strides towards the long table with no outward sign of unease. It strikes Karl that this aviator is visibly unarmed and any one of the men surrounding him won’t hesitate to shoot at Rudolf’s command. The thought makes Karl want to reach for his own sidearm as he tries to assess which man poses the greatest threat.

“Well?” The aviator’s lyrical accent fills the hall with unquestionable authority. “What did you want to see me about?”

Rudolf’s eyes bulge with indignation. “Who are you? You who dare to land here uninvited!” He shakes his head with a frown. “Do you know this country’s at war?”

“At war?” The aviator says, and Karl’s brow furrows. He had told the aviator that already. Was this man purposefully trying to goad The Commander?

The aviator gives a regretful shake of his head. “Still at it, hm? Well, we must clean that up.”

Rudolf’s frown intensifies. “What do you mean? ‘We must clean that up’?” He sniffs at the affront as he waves a hand. “War is war! So, again I say - who are you?”

“The Law.” Nothing in the aviator’s calm, collected tone changes. “Law and Sanity.”

Rudolf bangs his fist against the table as his cheeks turn red. “I’m the Law around here!”

“I said Law and Sanity.”

A tense, dangerous silence falls in the room, and Karl glances around sharply. He doesn’t want to see the aviator gunned down in cold blood under The Commander’s fury. Fortunately, Rudolf seems to get a hold of his temper as he glares back at the taller man before speaking. “And just what gives you the right? Who are you?!”

“Wings Over the World.”

“Bah!” The Commander dismisses with a shout. “You can’t just come into a country like this in this fashion!”

“And yet, I am here.” The aviator gestures to a chair opposite Rudolf. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

Karl’s brows climb to his hairline, and the room takes a collective gasp as the aviator elegantly folds himself into the chair. No one ever asks to sit at The Commander’s table despite the presence of the chair. It’s merely a decoration because no one is presumptuous enough to take so much of The Commander’s precious time.

Rudolf’s venom-filled stare is still fixed directly on the aviator as he tilts his head with growing impatience. “And now, for the fourth time - who are you?”

“Again, I tell you: Wings Over the World.”

“That’s nothing,” Rudolf insists. “What government are you under?”

“Common sense.” The aviator says, resting his hands gracefully in his lap as he maintains his unflappable, confident dignity. “I belong to World Communications, and we… run ourselves.”

Rudolf’s eyes widen and bulge out of his skull. “You’ll run into trouble if you try to do that here! Including landing here in war time!” His face twists in suspicion. “What’s your game?”

“Order and trade.”

Hope sparks in Karl’s chest. Perhaps this situation and any potential partnership might yet be salvageable.

“Trade, eh?” Guarded interest sparks on Rudolf’s face. “Can you provide anything in munitions?”

The aviator gives a slow shake of his head. “Not our line of business.”

“How about petrol? Spare parts?” Rudolf presses. “I have planes, and I’ve got boys who’ve some knowledge of how to fly them. But we have no fuel, and that hinders us. Perhaps… we might do a deal?”

“We might.”

The aviator's calm tone takes an unsettling turn in Karl’s mind. He thinks back to the man’s earlier words about salvaging the world as a last trustee of civilization. Is it too good to be true, though? Is this man someone who can truly help them? Or is he just a devil spouting false promises? Everything about his matching black attire and craft suggest the latter, but Karl can’t help but be entranced by the warmth of the man’s eyes and earnestness of his voice.

The Commander stiffens in his chair, fixing the aviator with a shrewd stare. “Now, don’t think that we require your help - I already know where I can get some petrol. In fact, my plans are already made, but if you can manage a temporary accommodation, we could do business.”

“World Communications helps no one to make war.”

“End war! End war!” Rudolf insists. “I want to make victorious peace!”

The aviator lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “I believe I’ve heard that phrase before. But it has made no end of war.”

“Now look here, Mr. Aviator,” Rudolf’s voice raises as he leans forward to leverage the full force of his intimidation at the lean, seated man. “Let’s see how we stand, hmm? With the way you swagger, you don’t seem to realize that you’re under arrest.”

Karl snaps to attention and takes the opening. “I have already informed him, sir. Whether or not he admits it, he and his aircraft are at your command.”

“And rightly so.” The Commander glances over at Karl with an appreciative nod. “Good man, Horstmayer. A truly loyal citizen of our Sovereign State.”

Karl tips his head in an open sign of gratitude before glancing back at the aviator-cum-prisoner. Even still, the man doesn’t look the slightest bit bothered by the conversation. He sits with unfathomable ease, projecting a wisdom far beyond his years. Surely, this man isn’t more than five years or so Karl’s senior, but he radiates a calm sense of purpose and confidence that Karl has never known.

The aviator fixes Rudolf with his soulful eyes. “You’ll find other planes looking for me if I happen to be delayed.”

A shiver runs down Karl’s spine. He isn’t quite sure if the words are meant as a threat, but it sounds bone-chillingly ominous despite the man’s affable tone.

If Rudolf shares Karl’s concern, he projects no unease as he barrels ahead. “Well, we’ll deal with them later! Now, you can start a trading agency here if you like. I’ve no objection.” He gives his head a stern shake for emphasis. “But the first thing that we shall want is to get our airplanes in the air.”

“Quite a laudable ambition,” the aviator acknowledges. “But our new order has an objection to private airplanes.”

“My airplanes are public airplanes!” Rudolf’s face continues to redden with rising frustration. “This is an independent Sovereign State at war!” He slams his fist against the table again. “I don’t know anything about your order! And I’m not taking any orders - old or new - from you!”

Karl tenses and his hand twitches at his side. He knows he won’t be fast enough to stop a guard if they shoot, and raising his weapon would jeopardize everything about his position. Still, the gut-wrenching urge to protect the aviator gnaws at him.

At length, the aviator hums in quiet consideration. “Then, I suppose I’ve walked into trouble.”

“Yes, you certainly have!” Rudolf barks, the reverberations of his voice dying against the stone walls as he settles back in this chair. “Now tell me straight - where do you come from?”

The aviator gives a small shake of his head as if he knows this conversation is past the point of no return. He sighs gently as he pushes up from the chair. “I flew from our headquarters at Basra this morning. We have some hundred new type planes, and we’re building more, fast.” The hint of a proud smile graces his face as he holds Rudolf’s gaze. “Gradually, we’re restoring order and trade in the whole Mediterranean area and expanding north. We’re scouting this region now to see how things are.”

“Well, you’ve found out! This is an independent Sovereign State!”

“Yes,” the aviator calmly replies. “We must also talk about that.”

“We don’t discuss it!”

“And we don’t approve of independent sovereign states.”

Impossibly, Rudolf’s eyes bulge wider. “You don’t approve…?!”

“In fact, we mean to stop them.”

“That’s war!”

Something wicked comes to the lift of the aviator’s mouth. “If you will.”

Karl exhales the breath that he doesn’t realize he held. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife. By contrast, the visitor’s flight suit looks paper thin. No one has ever threatened war in The Commander’s Sovereign State before, let alone while standing opposite his self-appointed throne. A thick swallow works down Karl’s throat as he braces for The Commander’s response.

At length, Rudolf blinks and sighs with a sharp edge of finality. “Well, I think we know how we stand. Burton,” he motions to a nearby guard. “Take this man, and if he gives you any trouble - club him.” He turns back to the aviator with an indignant snort. “Do you hear that, Mr. Wings Over your Wits?”

The aviator continues to hold The Commander’s gaze with a disconcerting smirk. “My friends know my whereabouts. If I don’t come back, they’ll send a force to find me.”

“Perhaps they won’t find you.” Rudolf’s tone takes a deadly tone that Karl recognizes all too well.

The aviator merely blinks as his smirk holds. “But they’ll find you.”

“They’ll find me ready!” Rudolf turns sharply to his guards.” Take him to the detention room below!”

The aviator offers no resistance as he’s led away. Karl can’t help but watch him go, feeling inexplicably lost. As the tall man passes, his gaze connects with Karl’s, and the aviator winks.

Butterflies erupt in Karl’s stomach, and he doesn’t know what to think. His feet feel glued to the floor, chest tight as he fights to keep his breathing even and temper the flush spreading across his cheeks.

The slam of a door across the room quickly snaps him back to himself as he notices Rudolf’s retreat to his private office. Summoning his courage, he crosses the large room towards the closed door. He knocks against the solid wood before he can rethink it.

“Come!” Rudolf bellows from within, and Karl slips quietly inside. The older man is seated in a plush armchair, hands braced on the armrests with his fingers impatiently drumming. He diverts his hard stare from the roaring fireplace to up Karl, with the full expectation that Karl will state his business and leave.

Honestly, Karl doesn’t know what he’ll achieve with The Commander in this mood, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He folds his hands behind his back. “I couldn’t help but wonder, sir,” Karl starts gently. “If, perhaps, that was our most advantageous course of action.”

“Advantageous?” The Commander lifts an indignant brow.

“Forgive my saying so, sir, but quarreling at the outset-”

“Quarreling?” The Commander’s fingers clench against the armrests. “Damn the man! He began to quarrel with me!” He snorts in disgust, doing a poor imitation of the aviator’s melodic accent. “‘We must clean that up’...” he snorts again. “Not my victorious war!”

“But sir,” Karl tempers, careful to keep his tone even. “We all heard him - there’s others behind him.”

“Others behind him,” The Commander scoffs. “The last thing I need is some sort of aerial bus driver coming in here and standing up to me like… like an equal!”

Karl bites back on this gut response to call The Commander a bully. He knows that will only end with him in the detention room, too. Or worse. Instead, he nods gently. “Perhaps that was our opportunity to show him that you are not his equal.”

“Weren’t you paying attention, boy?” The Commander barks. “That’s exactly what I did - I just handled the man!”

“I only meant that this man is the first real aviator to come this way in years. If we want our airplanes in working order, then, perhaps, he would be able to help.”

The Commander shakes his head in disgust. “You expect me to just hand my planes over to him? He’ll probably sabotage the lot of them!”

“I’m sure that you could have persuaded him. Under supervision, of course. Perhaps you still can.”

“Under supervision?” He arches a disparaging brow. “Whose supervision? Yours?” He snorts in disgust. “He’d be too much for you.”

Indignation simmers on Karl’s skin as his jaw tenses. “Well, if he’s going to be too much for me - and you, by extension - then, why don’t you just hang him and hide his machine before his friends are after you?”

The Commander pauses to draw a long, deep breath that expands his already wide chest. His eyes flash with a hint of sympathy - or maybe it’s pity. As if he knows some great truth of life that Karl could never hope to understand. Slowly, he shakes his head. “Karl, my boy… you speak as if this stranger has taken me by surprise. But he hasn’t. I knew he was coming.” His eyes brighten as if he’s just revealed some great secret. “Yes! I knew he was coming… I felt this conspiracy of air bus drivers brewing somewhere in the world - but, now we have our chance against them!” He raises his fist with purposeful determination. “We’ve got this fellow locked up. His friends won’t even begin to miss him for a while which gives us the advantage. So, tell me, how are the preparations coming for our attack on Floss Valley?”

Karl’s posture bolsters with confidence. “Your men stand at the ready, sir. We have our arms prepared, and the plan of attack has been confirmed.”

“Outstanding!” A satisfied grin lights The Commander’s face. “Then, spread the word! Tomorrow at dawn - those old coal and shale pits of Floss Valley shall be ours! God save our Land!”

“God save our Commander.” Karl recites on instinct. In truth, he’s never been a big fan of The Commander’s self-appointed slogan, but the citizens have rallied behind it time and time again. Saying it is a small price for the position that he’s fortunate to hold in The Commander’s regime.

The Commander smiles again with plump satisfaction. “Good man. Once we have those coal and shale pits - and petrol within our reach: the skies will be ours! And we’ll do it without the help of this impudent aerial bus driver.” He nods at Karl in clear dismissal. “Now go and prepare my men for a victorious battle!”

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