TW: Post War!AU, Mentions of civilian experience of war, general self-loathing, one period-appropriate term that could be considered a homophobic slur used in a self-referential manner.

 She was a beautiful young lady. Smart, too. Kind, humorous, charismatic. She had these enchanting deep brown eyes that you couldn't help but sink into, and she was a favourite with her sweetheart's parents.

Trott took another long swig, resisting the urge to throw the empty glass against the back of the bar.

She was so often smiling and laughing and she looked like an angel when she did, and she was practical, and had helped him out more than once. And she was probably in love with him. Who could resist?

He set the glass down onto the wet dark wood of the bar, his head swiftly following in despair as he glanced at the clock on the wall.

The vicar would be asking everyone to take their seats about now.

She was his friend- a good friend. He didn't want to be this person, trying desperately to drink away his sorrows in a pub at four in the afternoon, and he hated the fact that so much of him was praying her wedding was a disaster. So much so he hadn't even turned up.

There were other best men, he reminded himself. He probably wouldn't even be missed that much.

He had done so many other things for Smith, but he refused to stand inches away while the man he loved married someone else. He just couldn't do it.

He'd tried. God, he'd tried. He'd got dressed up, kept a brave face, helped Smith attach a fiddly medal to his uniform, he'd even managed to smile once or twice.

But when everyone else had set off for the church, he had excused himself, claiming he had left his keys at the house and wouldn't be a moment. He hadn't been able to resist the pull of their local and its quiet emptiness in the afternoon and the fact that the guy behind the bar (Mark, nice guy) just kept the alcohol coming.

He wanted to drink until he couldn't feel any more. He wanted to drink until he was dead. And then some more, for good measure. V-Day should have brought joy, freedom, tired relief that the fighting had stopped. People all around him were returning to their old lives- some better at adjusting than others- but the doctor found himself vainly wishing in some ways it hadn't come so soon. He didn't miss the horrors of Britain's young men and women coming into his hospital ruined beyond recognition, he didn't miss the wireless announcing death after death or the air raid sirens or the bone-shaking booming explosions,nor the increasingly sickening reports of war crimes coming across from the continent, nor the twisting fear of saying goodbye to Smith when he had to go to the airfield, trying to communicate everything he felt about how desperately he needed him to come home safely in a single handshake in front of a car full of Smith's impatient fellow pilots.

He missed when Smith came home and was all his, and it was just them, relief and smiles and desperate kisses fighting off the dark and cold outside. It felt like some gauzy Hollywood dream now, the morning sunlight on Smith's bare shoulders as he shifted under Trott's sheets, the laughter between stories Smith had told the boys to explain away his lovebites, the intimate warmth of each other's arms late at night when they just existed together, sharing soft kisses and breaths and studying each other's heartbeats. War had ended, thank the Lord, but their excuses for spending so much time together as Smith "slept in his spare room to be closer to the airfield" had gone with it.

Trott knew boys slept around when the going got hard- everyone did, he'd been burnt before. But Smith wasn't just some schoolboy crush or a quick dirty SoHo fuck. Trott felt so stupid admitting it, but he'd thought they were more than just a way to pass the time with each other. He'd spent evenings with Smith dozing on his chest playing with his hair and imagining their peacetime life; a flat together, somewhere with a river they could go on long walks down, and soft, thick covers on their bed, and a corner shop he could pick up their papers from. He'd bring his wireless and they'd turn together, bare-footed, on their lounge carpet, to whatever was playing, something slow. He'd get home from the hospital and find Smith, dozing contentedly, on their sofa, and if either of them struggled, they would be side by side, through everything.

Maybe he'd been naive to think it. Maybe he'd fallen too deep into the triumphalist rhetoric of the public broadcasts and posters, the belief that all their sacrifices would bring them all happy endings, the prayer that all of this had to be for something. Maybe he'd confused safety and contentment, maybe he'd misread something in Smith's actions, but everything had felt so real, all the promises they'd made to each other-

But he couldn't do a thing. The second Smith had been released from active duty, his parents had swept him up for a long week at home, and somehow by the end of it he was due to be married a week on Saturday. Trott had wondered if Smith's parents had cottoned on to why their son hadn't introduced them to a nice girl yet, even though he was one hell of a looker, and he'd had plenty of interest, and had pressed him to marry whoever he could find. (It wasn't like Smith hadn't dated girls, he noted sullenly; the airman had a great appreciation for them.) The question really was whether Smith had objected to the match- and, since he'd been so busy with wedding preparations, and on high alert because of his family coming to Bristol for it, Smith hadn't been around enough for Trott to get him alone and ask, talk about any of this.

Smith had picked well under duress- Kim was a wonderful woman, all told, and Trott hated himself for wishing her ill. She was canny and smart and could give Smith as good as he gave when it came to friendly bickering. And she was single, somehow, and, with traditional parents and a history of military marriages in the family, she'd apparently agreed to marry her good friend easily.

Trott thumped his forehead against the greasy, varnished wood of the bar with a groan. They'd be so beautiful together, arm in arm, smiling and waving and surrounded by friends, climbing into the car ready to set off on their new life together. A new life that didn't have any room for a queer doctor and his astounding ability to be the most densely naive man in England despite being so careful all this time.

As he contemplated the fact that he really had to start looking for rooms somewhere else, Trott felt a brisk tap on his shoulder. He lifted his heavy head in confusion, aware his face was a tear-streaked mess behind crooked glasses, blinking to try and focus on the figure stood beside him, arms crossed.

"You're Trott, I assume...? We don't have much time." The woman looked only a little younger than him, with long blonde hair tied elegantly back and a firm tone of voice. She was wearing some kind of military uniform and looking him over piercingly.

"Uh... what?" Trott said, righting his glasses and wiping his wet cheeks with a handkerchief from his pocket. "Who are you?"

"Agent Rutherford." The woman said, as if that explained everything, eyes resting on the collection of glasses Trott had amassed on the bar. "You're sure you're Smith's Trott?"

"That seems to be the question of the hour." He said, glumly. "Is everything all right?"

"It will be, if you follow me." The agent beckoned for Trott to follow her out of the pub, and he did, unable to resist admiring the sharp glare she shot the small gaggle of men in the corner who muttered about the presence of a woman in a place like this. Trott followed her onto the street and to a sleek black Triumph Dolomite Roadster, both grey seats spotless, into one of which she smartly clambered. Agent Rutherford started up the engine, and looked to Trott on the pavement as almost an afterthought.

"Well?" She said, retrieving driving gloves from the compartment and tugging them on smoothly. "Are you coming? He'll need you."

Trott didn't get the impression this "Agent Rutherford" was particularly in the mood to give him any more information while he was delaying her, and the possibility that Smith might need him- well, despite everything, he couldn't hold himself back from climbing into the passenger seat. With a mutter of "Finally." from Agent Rutherford they were off, speeding through the streets remarkably quickly with a rumbling, bumping ride that made Trott feel distinctly unsafe.

"How do you know Smith?" He called to her over the noise of the engine. The traffic seemed sparse, thankfully, and as they drove Trott gazed out at the construction work and empty plots that now pepperd the streets. The city seemed to be returning to normal slowly, but his stomach turned in memory of the bombings, fingers twitching for the cool cardboard of the gas mask that sat at home now.

"I didn't before a few weeks ago." The agent replied, engine revving as she turned, not taking her eyes off the road. "Kim and I are very close. And she passed on a message that I should fetch you to bring you along today."

Trott's stomach sank; had he been corralled into going to the wedding after all? The idea of seeing Smith in his uniform again, but with a wife by now, filled him with sickening dread, and he promptly wished the charabang looking to turn onto their side of the road would careen into them and save him from having to face it.

"She told me you and Smith are close too." Agent Rutherford added, and Trott paled, seeing the church coming into view and the Just Married car waiting outside it.

"I suppose we were." Trott said, voice a little thick.

"We're here. Get out." Trott did as he was told, stepping onto the pavement and waiting for the woman to join him. Much to his surprise, she didn't, and she kept the engine running.

Trott didn't have much time to think about this before he heard a series of loud long and short beeps; Agent Rutherford was pressing the horn in a seemingly random pattern, and suddenly the peace of the church yard was interrupted by the loud screech of the church's doors. A figure in a white dress had pushed them open, face alight with brilliant joy, and as she made her way down the steps towards them Trott could see the figure was familiar- it was Kim, in her wedding dress, bouquet still in hand. A moment later, Smith appeared at the top of the steps, his expression one of utter confusion. His uniform was pressed and his hair was an artful mess, kiss curl bouncing against his forehead, and Trott felt his heart skip with how hopelessly bad he had it for the pilot.

"What the hell, Kim?!" Smith yelled, and Kim turned at the bottom of the stairs, walking backwards.

"Sorry, Smith!" she called up, as the wedding guests began to amass around Smith in the doorway. "You're really great, but you're not for me! This has been fun, though! Let's never do this again!"

Most of the guests were staring at Kim and Smith, but Trott's eyes fell on Agent Rutherford, and with the sight of her face everything became far clearer. She was grinning, azure eyes shining, and she looked utterly enchanted by the sight of Kim. He wouldn't have thought her strict countenance could melt so easily into fondness, but there it was, written all across her face, and Trott instantly knew he and Agent Rutherford had more in common than he previously thought.

Piece said, Kim turned her back to the wedding crowd and sprinted down the church path, skirt hitched up round her knees, eyes only for the woman in the car. As she reached the pavement she noticed Trott, tugging him close to kiss his cheek and push the bouquet of white and purple flowers into his hands.

"Make sure he looks after you, doc." She grinned, flushed with excitement as she opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat. Trott didn't have a chance to say anything in return, as the roadster's engine revved, ringing loudly on the quiet street, and audible long after the car had sped away, carrying both women off to God knows where. As they turned the corner at the end of the street Trott saw what he thought was a shift of colour as Agent Rutherford slid her arm around the back of the passenger seat, pulling Kim a little closer.

As the wedding guests burst into confused and excited chatter behind him, Smith shook his head, sitting down onto the cold stone church steps and removing his cap, passing it between his hands in a daze. He could hear the concerned vicar asking his parents what they wanted to do next, his brother and cousins chattering heatedly about what they ought to do next, and Kim's family making admirable attempts at damage control, but his attention was drawn to the lychgate, and the figure stepping awkwardly through it, holding his ex-bride's bouquet in his hands.

Trott looked scruffier than the doctor would probably enjoy Smith pointing out, eyes red as if he'd been crying, and as his footsteps approached along the flagstone path Smith couldn't help but feel his chest filling with joy at his presence. To the pilot who had woken up full of cold dread that morning at the idea of married life without the doctor, Trott was a lifeline, the hard tug of a deploying parachute mid-fall. He still looked warmly handsome, and as he climbed the steps in his quiet way the slight hitch in his gait at putting weight on the temperamental leg that kept him from active service was so familiar Smith wanted to cry with how much Trott felt like he was home. The doctor settled beside him, in silence, and for a moment they both stared out into the churchyard and the road beyond.

"Better luck next time?" Trott offered, holding up the flowers. Smith took them with a snort, looking them over, aware he couldn't stop grinning, and that the doctor beside him was doing that thing where he studied the creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth and the slight dimple in his cheek and thought he was subtle about it.

"What do you mean, Trott?" Smith looked over to him and met his eyes, raising an eyebrow. Trott watched and couldn't shake the suspicion he was missing something here. "Kim's gone, but she's happy. And the way I see it, I have you, and two tickets for a two week stay in a romantic Cornwall BnB. Lucky me, and lucky lucky someone else."

Trott stared. He stared at Smith for at least a minute, perhaps a few days, his stomach flipping with excitement so frantically it might as well have been entered for the Olympic gymnastics. "You-" he whispered in disbelief, "you planned this?!"

"Me?" Smith asked with a tone of faux innocence. "Would I do something like that?"

"Yes." Trott replied bluntly, shaking his head a little. "You would on your own, I should have known you and Kim together would come up with something just this mad."

"Well, if you don't like it," Smith got to his feet with a sigh as he heard his family approaching. Trott stood up too, a little less steadily. "I can always take someone else on my honeymoon."

"You're a bad person, Alex Smith." Trott muttered, shaking his head in fake despair as Smith shot him a shameless wink.

"Pack your bags, Chris Trott." Smith patted his shoulder as he passed him, climbing the stairs to talk to his parents, and leaving the doctor speechless on the steps to contemplate the fact that, in some ways, Kim and Smith were a match made in Heaven. Just... thankfully, not in the matrimonial sense.

Credit to brownpapermoon on tumblr