Chapter Text
"You don't have to do this," Biggles said quietly, for what felt like the hundredth time.
"If I had known being married to you was at the end of this road, Bigglesworth—"
Von Stalhein broke off, but Biggles could easily finish that sentence: I'd have preferred to stay on Sakhalin.
Von Stalhein didn't look at him, but Biggles looked at him, guilty but lingering, like a caress down the side of his gaunt face. He had shaved, his hair had been trimmed, but it was impossible not to notice the grey pallor, the slight tremor in the hand gripping the top of a newly purchased cane, the stark thinness of his shoulders when he shifted them under the stiff fabric of a new suit.
Biggles had paid for all of it, which made him no less uncomfortable than any other aspect of the situation, but there was no way around it. Von Stalhein had nothing—nothing save freedom, the one thing Biggles himself was finally going to take away from him.
"You don't have to," Biggles said again—low, fierce—and von Stalhein's shoulders twitched again, under the suit. "There are other places to go." Although he was having some trouble thinking of one. France was obviously out, and America seemed an ill-fitting choice for a former Soviet agent when the country was in the throes of a purge. South America? Spain? The Middle East? He knew the terrain well and spoke the language ...
Right now it seemed that the entire world consisted of this corridor outside a Whitehall conference room. They were sitting together, side by side, on a bench. At least von Stalhein wasn't cuffed; this was something Biggles had fought vehemently, and Raymond had backed him up.
But rules were rules. Von Stalhein was a fugitive, his asylum request had not been granted, and there was only one way Raymond had come up with that would allow him to stay in the country: he had to be married to a British subject. The other option was immediate extradition back to Russia. All Biggles's furious pleading that this would mean his death had fallen on deaf ears.
This had never occurred to Biggles at the beginning of all of this. It had never occurred to Raymond either. The bad news had hit them when they landed, and at that point they were too far gone to back out, all their opportunities to let von Stalhein gracefully step off the 'plane on some foreign soil vanished behind them.
Down the hall, the security detail that had shadowed von Stalhein ever since he set foot on British soil were eyeing them, but had given them enough space that it was possible to speak without being overheard as long as they kept their voices down.
"I'll fly you anywhere you like," Biggles said quietly. "We can go right now. I don't care if I get in trouble. It doesn't matter where. I have enough ready cash to get you started, and I can wire you more. I think I can get us started before they realise what we're doing, and Algy and the others can slow them down and spoil our trail—"
"Bigglesworth," von Stalhein said, stirring abruptly out of the fugue state in which he had been sitting on the bench for the last few minutes. "There is no point in thinking of what-ifs and might-have-beens, is there?" He looked at Biggles finally, for the first time in this very long day, and his steel-blue eyes were poisonous. "It's done. Protestations won't change it. Stop pretending you didn't know."
The accusation hit Biggles like a whipcrack that laid him bare to the bone, taking his breath away. He took a moment to recover. "I never lied to you," he said carefully. "I never have lied to you, not since—"
But of course this immediately recalled to mind the incidents in Palestine, and all the times he had lied, and successfully too. He had started their very acquaintance by proving to von Stalhein that not a word out of his mouth could be trusted. Why did he expect that his every effort to prove the opposite would change that?
The expression on von Stalhein's face was not precisely triumphant; he was far too tired, too worn down and backed into a corner for that. But there was a cold, spiteful trace of a sneer, as if he could read Biggles well enough by this point to see the moment that the guilt slid in.
There was more than that, though. There was utter exhaustion, and worse, there was a kind of underlying sadness, something that Biggles had never seen in him before, that cut to the quick.
Von Stalhein wrenched his gaze away, as if realizing these brief moments of eye contact were giving away more than he meant to.
"Listen," Biggles began, and von Stalhein's shoulders hunched a little. It was an infinitesimal movement, and perhaps no one else would have noticed, but Biggles instantly recognised what it was: a man preparing to a receive a blow.
Stricken, he broke off, and then the door to the conference room opened.
Raymond came out, looking tired. Biggles leaped to his feet, and von Stalhein followed, creaky and slow, moving with shockingly little of his usual lithe grace. Biggles had to brutally force down the urge to offer him a hand. He knew it wouldn't be accepted and would only embarrass him.
"I've done all I can do," Raymond said. He looked tired. "The paperwork has been expedited, but there will still have to be a ceremony for form's sake; that part can't be skipped. Unless either of you have changed your mind."
Biggles turned to von Stalhein. There was a delay, strange in the usually quick and decisive former Soviet agent, before the ice-blue eyes turned to his. They were chilly as usual, but there was a muddled look to them, a sort of uncertainty.
"Anywhere you want," Biggles told him calmly, looking him in the eyes and trying to project all the sincerity he had to offer. "Anywhere in the world that isn't here."
Von Stalhein tore his eyes away. His gaze dropped to the floor, and he blinked, a quick flutter of dark lashes. His throat worked for a moment. Then he looked at Raymond, and his face was as cold and remote as it ever had been when he and Biggles met across a gun barrel.
"I'll do it if Bigglesworth agrees," he said.
Biggles swallowed. His throat ached. "Yes."
"Then," said von Stalhein, with a ghost of his old ruthless efficiency, "let us get it done."
***
Biggles had never imagined his wedding day. He had never even thought about it. He thought in concrete terms, airspeed and altitude and cloud ceiling. Imagining the future course of his life was, perhaps, a habit he'd lost in what they were now calling the First World War, and it had never seemed worth it to him to regain it.
So he had no basis for comparison. But he knew it wasn't supposed to be like this: the two of them standing rigidly side by side, in rumpled suits they had been wearing for days. Sunset-tinged light slanted into the room. The only people present were the two of them, an officiant whose exact status Biggles never determined (although he gathered that the man had a high Home Office clearance), Raymond, and the security detail, one of whom was tapped as a second witness after Raymond.
Biggles went through the motions and said the words, all too aware of a humming sense of wrongness that filled his entire body. It wasn't until the rings part was reached that he realised they had none. He turned to Raymond, wanting to ask if lacking the rings would invalidate the wedding—wanting to beg that it might—but Raymond was holding out a hand. In it, a rumpled handkerchief and two silver bands that glinted dully. Even Biggles, who knew less about jewelry than he did about species of aardvark, could recognise that these were extremely cheap and poor quality.
"All I could find at this short notice," Raymond said with an apologetic grimace. "You can get something better later, if you like."
There seemed no point in arguing. Biggles murmured thanks as the rings were deposited in his palm, turned to pass von Stalhein's across the small and yet seemingly insurmountable distance between them. Any chance they might have one day closed that gap was vanishing moment by moment, receding into some hypothetical alternate future.
Rather than focusing on that, Biggles looked down at the polished wooden floor and his own hand, palm up. After a hesitation, von Stalhein laid his long, fine fingers in Biggles's. The slight tremor that rattled them was a palsy that had come and gone during their travels back—a legacy of Sakhalin, Biggles knew, like the swelling now marring knuckles that had once been strong but almost delicate.
It was the first time Biggles had seen those graceful fingers up close since Sakhalin. They had developed a new and unfamiliar crookedness. The little finger was hooked almost sideways, a clear sign that it had been broken and failed to heal straight. The veins and tendons stood out above the row of knuckles, blue-tinted under sallow skin lightly dusted with curls of black hair.
Biggles found himself in the throes of a mix of captivated tenderness and furious protectiveness that made it almost impossible to breathe. He realised that he was lightly stroking the side of von Stalhein's hand with his thumb, caressing the formerly broken finger as if he could smooth it back to its unmarred state once again.
Von Stalhein didn't pull away. His hand lay quiescent in Biggles's palm as Biggles's fingers curled around his and Biggles's thumb stroked the side of his hand. Even the palsied trembling had nearly ceased.
Someone cleared their throat behind Biggles, Raymond or the officiant, but it broke the spell. Biggles jerked, and the fingers that rested lightly in his own jerked as well and lifted up so that their skin was barely touching. Biggles became aware for the first time that von Stalhein's hand was ice cold.
"With this ring," the officiant said, with a slight tightness that suggested it wasn't anywhere near the first time he had said it, and probably not the first time someone had tried to get Biggles's attention.
"With this ring," Biggles said quietly.
He slid the ring onto von Stalhein's finger. It hung up slightly on the swollen knuckle and had to be coaxed past it.
He autopiloted through the rest, and then it was his turn to place his hand in von Stalhein's palm—strange how seeing them together like this made him aware of how much smaller and squarer his own hand was, compared to von Stalhein's long, narrow one. The slender fingers, damaged by mistreatment but now ruthlessly held to a gunman's rock-solid stillness, placed the ring on his finger with cool, careful efficiency. Biggles could easily imagine such careful concentration, such steady hands, field-cleaning a Mauser or arming an explosive.
And then it came to a close with the part that he had somehow forgotten about.
"You may kiss," the officiant said.
Biggles was once again left in difficulty. Could they leave this part off? Could he do it, knowing von Stalhein was unwilling? But even as his thoughts ran off down a wild flight path, he realised von Stalhein was leaning forward. Lips, softer than he was expecting, grazed the corner of his mouth, tapped its edge like a pilot testing the carpet and pulled back just as swiftly. Biggles tried to reciprocate but he was too slow; he kissed only air.
Von Stalhein turned before Biggles could catch his eye or see what was on his face.
It was done.
Biggles thought he should feel more than this empty, tired sorrow. Around him, the group was breaking up, the officiant speaking to someone who must have come into the room while the ceremony was in progress. Von Stalhein stood beside Biggles like a statue. He was so still that his one small source of movement stood out: his hand fidgeting on the head of his cane, thumb brushing back and forth across the new irritant of the ring. When he noticed himself being observed, he immediately stopped. He still wasn't looking at Biggles.
"Of course, you'll be wanting space," Biggles said swiftly to him, desperate to paper over the awkwardness and salvage something, at least, of this long, terrible day. "The least they—the least we can do is pay for a hotel while you—"
"I don't think that will work," Raymond said, approaching from conference with some of the newcomers.
Biggles turned to look at him. He wasn't aware that he looked either insubordinate or upset, but there must have been something, because Raymond actually took a step back.
"I mean," Raymond clarified, "I don't feel that separate lodgings are indicated immediately."
"I don't understand." Biggles's voice stayed calm, but he wished he had a cigarette, a control stick in his hand, anything to give him something to do. "We did everything they wanted."
"And now you have to sell it," Raymond said quietly. "I apologise, Bigglesworth—I shan't speak of, er—consummating the marriage—" He didn't look at von Stalhein, and neither did Biggles, although he was aware—he wasn't sure how—of a rigid, almost leonine stillness in the man next to him. Somehow this aspect of it had never really sunk in for Biggles, and he lost Raymond's next few words. His body flushed with a stomach-twisting, conflicted sense of von Stalhein's nearness combined with visceral, skin-prickling horror at the awfulness of what Biggles had set before him. It was prostitution, no, worse—! Through a humming in his ears, he became aware that Raymond was still speaking in a low, urgent tone.
"—without which, the marriage is not valid. If that is indeed the case, you can't let anyone get hold of it, not Whitehall nor the press. In these earliest days, cohabitation is really the only way to make it look valid. No one can prove otherwise without directly peeping into your flat, and I assure you, on my strongest word, I will not allow anything of the sort. After some time it may not seem so strange for the two of you to—er—take separate quarters, as some married couples do. Bigglesworth, do you understand?"
Biggle, still all but paralyzed with bitter self-reproach, was aware of von Stalhein looking at him curiously, seemingly drawn a bit out of the haze that had enveloped him all day. Von Stalhein answered before Biggles could say anything. "That would be fine," he said. "Thank you. Would you be able to help procure lodgings?"
"Can you take him home with you for tonight?" Raymond asked Biggles.
This jolted Biggles. "Not Mount Street," he said thickly. He couldn't imagine bringing von Stalhein into the midst of Algy, Ginger, and Bertie's lives—couldn't imagine what they'd say—couldn't imagine—
What had he done?
Now both of them were looking at him as if not sure what they were looking at. "Good God, man, you're looking white," Raymond said. "Both of you look done in. I'm sorry, this all has been a lot to take in, I know. We will arrange a flat for you both and have it by the end of the day. It's honestly the least we can do after what we've put you through."
Biggles didn't look at von Stalhein. At the moment, he wasn't sure that he ever had the right to look at him again. Rotely he signed his name to the paperwork, and watched von Stalhein sign with incredibly neat handwriting, loops and flourishes in brown-tinged ink locking them into a prison of their own making.
***
The flat that was found for them, on shockingly short notice, was a first-floor, one-bedroom walk-up. Biggles had immediate doubts about the stairs, which were steep and narrow, when he saw von Stalhein hesitate before carefully and hitchingly navigating them, but once again restrained himself from offering unwanted help. Von Stalhein would not always be this stiff and weak, Biggles knew; he had seen the man move with the grace and speed of a striking snake, even in recent years. And they were both still reeling from a day that felt as if it was echoing through the hollows of Biggles's exhausted mind.
The flat was small but clean, nice, and airy. It looked as if it would receive morning sun. There was a sitting room and half-kitchen, and a full bathroom. The furniture was plain and somewhat old, but neatly kept.
Von Stalhein hung his coat on the rack inside the door, placed his stick neatly against the wall, and then merely stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, as if exhaustion had caught up with him all at once.
"Here, you can have first turn in the bathroom," Biggles offered. Without thinking, he moved to touch von Stalhein's arm and guide him into the room, the way he would have done for any of the others, if Algy or Ginger or Bertie were in a similar state.
Von Stalhein came to life with a shadow of his old speed. "Don't touch me," he snarled, wrenching his shoulder away. The movement put him on his bad leg, which nearly buckled under him. He got his balance and limped into the flat, shoulders stiff and proud, and closed the bathroom door behind him.
Biggles was left shocked by the vehemence of it. The hurt was instinctive, but irrational, and he knew it, battening it down in the cargo holds of his mind. Why would von Stalhein welcome his touch, after all of this? Some rescue this had turned out to be, he thought dismally.
Now he was left standing, one hand still partly upraised, as water began to run in the bathroom. Heat flushed through him. He hadn't considered that sharing these close quarters meant he would be acutely aware of von Stalhein taking a bath. And it wasn't even as if they hadn't shared equally close quarters on the journey back on the Otter—but there had still been separate hotel rooms, generally ... and anyway, it was different now, in some strange, indefinable way. It might be a sham marriage, but that was still his husband in there.
That was Erich von Stalhein in there, taking off his clothes.
This was to have been their wedding night.
A knock at the door jolted him all over. He stood still for a moment, finding it unusually difficult to switch flight tracks, and then—unsure who it could possibly be, and wary of the options—he opened the door a crack and peeked out. Whomever he had expected, it certainly wasn't—
"Algy?" Biggles said in surprise, opening the door wide.
"Brought your kit," Algy said briefly, holding up a battered leather travel case that Biggles recognised as his own. "Along with a few things from the flat I thought you'd want if you're sleeping over. Is he—er—"
"Taking a bath," Biggles said. He lowered his voice quickly, not wanting von Stalhein to hear himself discussed. "Do you want to come in? I was going to catch all of you up, it's only ..."
He made a gesture intended to encompass the day, and suddenly it hit him how very tired he was. The next thing he knew, Algy's strong, familiar hand was on his shoulder. Algy steered him to the sofa and sat him firmly there, keeping a hand on his arm all the while.
"Where are your tea things?" Algy asked, kneeling to look in his face. "Or do you have any?"
"I have no idea," Biggles said. The words were calm, but there was something underneath struggling to escape, something he couldn't let out. "I don't know if there are any. It's not my flat. Except I suppose it is." He let out half a sharp, hitching laugh and then got himself under control.
Algy stared at him in worry for a moment and then got up, squeezing his shoulder. "I'll see if you do. Do you want anything else?"
A second chance, Biggles thought dully, looking at the floor. A better world. An opportunity to approach von Stalhein properly, without all of this in the way, without Sakhalin and all of this, without the mistakes and the lies and all of the build-up of resentment and enmity and betrayals that had made any true version of this—the hollow parody of which he now held in his hands—an impossibility for ever ...
"No," he said, realizing Algy was waiting for an answer.
Algy nodded and went. There was a little clattering, and then a blanket was draped around Biggles's shoulders. More clattering ensued, along with occasional murmurs such as, "Ha! Knew they had to have left something—blighters they may be, barbarians they aren't ..." Clinking. The hiss of a gas ring. "... call this rusted tin monstrosity a kettle, my mother would've had cats, we're bringing you the old one with the dent in it from the flat immediately ..." Click, clank, clack. "Where'd they hide the sugar? Is there sugar? I take back the barbarian remark ..."
Biggles let it wash over him with the comfort of familiarity, the ease of being able to relax into something—in all this long, terrible day—that wasn't awful.
But ... not all of it had been awful. Under different circumstances, very different circumstances, it might have been good. He may never have imagined his wedding day, but there was one and only thing about this day that hadn't been horribly wrong, and that was von Stalhein's lithe, upright figure beside his own.
He had never dealt in hypotheticals; he preferred to think of the here and now. But he had always been very good at thinking of options. He almost couldn't help it. Every time he was stuck, his brain spun him a million different ways it could go, however far-fetched. And now, against his will, his mind was providing vivid alternatives to today's nuptial farce. A version with von Stalhein holding his hand, those long delicate fingers warm and strong around his own; the austere and beautiful face not hollowed out from illness, the cool blue eyes lit with a warmth that turned them into a fire he could warm himself beside for ever—
"Here," Algy said, mercifully interrupting his thoughts. A hot cup of tea was shoved into his hands. Algy kept hold until Biggles clearly had it, then sat beside him. "You'll have to take it without milk, but there's plenty of sugar, after I found it in the boot cupboard, if you'll believe it. I made a cup for him," he added, lowering his head over his own cup. "Not sure he deserves it after all of this, but—"
"Don't," Biggles said, surprising himself with his own sharpness. "None of this is his fault. None of it is anything he chose."
Algy looked like he was gearing up for a repeat of the old argument, but then he broke off and looked away. "Sorry," he muttered. His gaze roved round the flat. "Sorry for all of this, Biggles. This is ... not a bad sort of place, I suppose?"
"It's no Mount Street," Biggles said, and managed a sort of lopsided grin. He took a sip of the tea. It was very hot, very strong, and loaded with sugar. Algy was reliable for things like that. "But I've slept in worse."
Algy met his eyes and smiled. "Haven't we both. Don't forget that time I had to spend the night covered in mud beside a swamp lake in the back end of Russian nowhere, because someone didn't follow very clear instructions for rendezvous if we were separated."
"Don't forget that someone was hiding in that same swamp, trying not to get caught by patrols and fearing to set out to meet you in case you'd already set out to meet us!"
They both laughed, and Biggles could feel some of his misery and distress sliding away. The faint sound of water running in the bathroom brought a little of it back, but he was starting to feel his usual resilience reasserting itself. He was in a cloudbank, but he could get on top of it. There was always a way.
"Did you draw the short straw?" he asked Algy. The smile came more easily this time.
Algy grinned. "No, more like I was nominated. We figured of the three of us, I was the one you'd be most likely to let in. We weren't sure what state we were going to find you in, honestly—pacing and snapping at people, flying high in problem-solving mode, lying on the floor weeping—"
"That had better not be a serious suggestion." By now he had finished his tea, so he was able to duck the sofa cushion Algy swiped at him with.
"In all seriousness," Algy went on, sobering, "this is a tough one, and altogether a strange one, but you know we've found ourselves in tighter spots. Bertie has already decided he's going to, in his own words, 'pop round the old sporting ground for a jaw-wag, eh what"—he did a remarkably good Bertie—"and start talking to his cronies among the titled set and sending out signal balloons to see if he can pull some strings and find a loophole to get you unhitched—"
"No!" The vehemence of Biggles's reaction surprised him, and clearly Algy as well. "I don't think it's a good idea to start making waves," he went on in a calmer voice. "We're not actively hiding von Stalhein, but we shouldn't be waving a red flag to draw attention to his presence in London, either. He's still in a lot of danger from his former Soviet puppetmasters. If they find out where he is—"
"—You'll be in danger too," Algy finished. "As well as the rest of us. Yes, you're right. I don't like it, but I understand it."
It was on the tip of Biggles's tongue to argue further: he wasn't in danger, no one was gunning for him, at least not any more ... thanks to von Stalhein. It wasn't his own safety he was worried about. But Algy's version of the argument seemed to have stopped the objections, so Biggles decided to leave it alone for now.
"So what, you're just stuck with this, then?" Algy asked in a low, angry voice. "For how long? Six months, a year—ten years—"
"It's three years to British citizenship for a subject's spouse."
"Oh my God," Algy said, and buried his head in his hands.
"But we don't have to live together for the entire time," Biggles hastened to reassure him. He refused to acknowledge that the idea of moving out bothered him for some reason. "Or even most of the time. Raymond thought just a couple of months ought to do it, long enough to make it clear that we mean it and that the marriage is legitimate—"
"Even though it's not."
Another soul-deep twinge. "No, it's not. I know that. But it's legal, and as long as we give no one any reason to think it's not, then I really only have to ..."
He balked; Algy said it for him. "Play your role?"
"Yes," Biggles sighed. "For a few months, and then I can go back to Mount Street and Erich can have the freedom of choice we meant to offer him in the first place."
It made the entire sham feel even more hollow than before, but what other choice was there?
"Erich now, is it?" Algy asked with weary amusement.
"Do you want another cup of tea?" Biggles asked, decisively changing the subject.
"I'd better not, unless you want Ginger and Bertie losing their heads and coming round to see what's what. I should get back and give them the gen." He started to stand up; then an arch smile crossed his face. "Are you still going to be able to go out with us now that you're a married man and all? Do you have to check with the little spouse before you know if you're allowed to—"
This time, the sofa cushion connected solidly with the side of Algy's head.
***
As soon as Algy had left, there was yet another rap on the door.
Biggles passed his hand over his face, left the tea things in the sink—von Stalhein's cup was cooling on the sideboard; he hadn't emerged from the bathroom yet—and went to answer it.
"This place isn't going to be under wraps for long if everyone and his fifth cousin shows up here, you know," he said upon the discovery of Raymond on his doorstep, hat pulled down low.
"It's not meant to be secret," Raymond pointed out. He slipped into the flat and Biggles closed the door. "At least not as such. As an asylum seeker, we were going to help him vanish. As your husband, however, he's in very different circumstances. He is married to a policeman whose chain of command goes up to the highest levels. In one stroke you've not only made him eligible for citizenship, but also made him a policeman's spouse. The Soviets may still try, but it will give them pause. We'll also have a detail on you for a while, just in case. We don't plan to leave you twisting in the wind, Bigglesworth."
Biggles got the impression Raymond was offering an olive branch. It also occurred to him that he hadn't thought about it that way. He had been focused on turning von Stalhein loose to make his own way in the world, granting him the freedom that was the only gift he had to give. But now he realised that, as much as he would not have chosen to bind him in this way, the protection that Biggles had given him was the strongest he had to give. Not merely the British government behind him, but his own presence in the flat every night.
Strangely, this assuaged his guilty conscience somewhat. Between that and the lingering lightness from Algy's visit, he felt much less dismal.
"What have you brought there?" he asked, nodding to the case in Raymond's hand.
"Oh—his things from the 'plane, in part, along with a few more items, some clean shirts and the like."
In all of this, Biggles had completely forgotten that von Stalhein had a few things amongst their own, purchased on their journey home—shaving tackle and other toilet items, a change of clothing. All of it new, all impersonal, a paltry collection of items to start a new life in another country. But better than nothing, and it would save him the indignity of having to share Biggles's kit tonight.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, taking it. "He'll want this."
"He's in the bathroom, I presume?" At Biggles's nod, Raymond said, "How's he settling in?"
"I can't say, sir; he hasn't come out yet."
Raymond smiled a little. "And you?" he asked, scanning Biggles with sharp eyes.
"I'm well enough, if that's what you mean."
"It's a significant change in circumstances for you."
"I hope not," Biggles said, thinking of Algy's jibe about needing to ask permission to go out. It was a joke, of course, but now he wondered. "Will this affect my work with the Air Police?"
"Of course not," Raymond said, shocked. "Or at least, it needn't unless you want it to. If I thought I was going to lose you by signing on to this hare-brained scheme, I'd never have agreed to it."
"The final word was always mine, sir," Biggles reminded him, polite but with a hint of steel.
"Yours and von Stalhein's," Raymond said, and Biggles gave a tight nod, reminded all over again, with an ugly jolt, of how little choice von Stalhein really had. "Well, I won't keep you, Bigglesworth. I really just came to drop this off and see how you were getting on."
"Do you want to stay for a cup of something hot? Algy found tea things, although there's no milk, so I suppose we'll have to see about that in the morning. I can make a fresh pot."
Raymond shook his head. "No, I didn't mean to stay. Miles to go before I sleep and all of that." He looked briefly weary, and it made Biggles realise that he was being, to a certain extent, insulated from a lot of the fallout from this under his boss's umbrella. "So I'll run along, but—" Raymond hesitated, looking almost awkward, an unusual thing in him. "I hardly think congratulations are in order under the circumstances, and yet, it feels so deuced odd not to say it to a fellow who just tied the knot that I can't help myself. Congratulations, Bigglesworth."
They exchanged a brief, firm handshake, and then Raymond let himself out. Biggles locked the door behind him, feeling decidedly odd—almost warm.
For all the strangeness of the day and the fakery of the marriage, he couldn't help thinking that he didn't mind Raymond's congratulations. It was nice to hear it from one person, at least.
The bathroom door opened abruptly, and von Stalhein emerged in a cloud of steam. Somewhat disconcertingly, although he had clearly bathed (based on the water-dark dampness of his greying hair), he had redressed himself in the suit he had been wearing all day. He must have taken some time to get every crease as neat as possible, and Biggles couldn't help thinking it looked like armour.
Von Stalhein stopped and looked at Biggles, his face drawn and unreadable.
"This is yours," Biggles said, holding out the case. "Raymond brought it by; it's your things from the Otter, plus a few ordinary extras. I'm sorry, I should have thought of it myself."
"Thank you," von Stalhein said crisply, and took it with an attitude as erect and proper as if he was on a Prussian parade ground. Biggles nearly expected him to click his heels. Their fingers did not brush.
Von Stalhein turned, and there was a minute hesitation. He must have been tired earlier, Biggles thought, because it was clear that he was just now clocking the one-bedroom situation.
"You can have it," Biggles said. "I'm not even tired, and I—"
Von Stalhein turned on him, a bit slower, but with a similar venom to the rejection of Biggles's supportive touch earlier. "I don't want your charity, Bigglesworth," he spat.
Biggles drew back. It hurt—after the flight home, after they had begun to relax around each other just a little on the journey. But he understood it. In von Stalhein's shoes, he would have been like a cornered, snarling cat as well.
"It's not charity. I expect you're done in, and I still have a lot of nervous energy to burn off. I was going to have a look round the flat and see if there's any food. Algy found tea earlier—"
"Oh, Lacey was here too? Wonderful."
"Yes, Algy was here," Biggles shot back. He was trying to be patient with von Stalhein's snappishness, but found that having it directed at his friends was a hard limit. "He came to bring my kit, and he'll likely be back tomorrow, as I got the distinct impression there are a few kitchen things he feels we need. He made you a cup of tea as well, if you want it."
"No," von Stalhein said. "I do not."
He went into the bedroom and closed the door. After a moment there were small rustling sounds from the bedroom, the click of a lock opening, the whisper of clothing being unfolded—
Biggles took a slow breath and went back to cleaning up the tea things.
This was going to be a long two months.