It's nearly my five-year Bigglesversary! And that means there has to be fic. My plans for actually finishing one of the fics I started practically five years ago to the day have not quite come off yet, so instead have this bit of ridiculousness that wandered into my head yesterday and wouldn't go away.

Title: Touch
Content: Biggles/EvS, a bit of EvS/Zorotov and Biggles/Marie, UST, resolved UST, 1000 words
Summary: months later, Erich could still feel each separate touch



In the Kurdish castle Bigglesworth had taken his arm to help himself up a broken bit of stairwell, without asking, simply presuming that if he needed a hand Erich would provide it, his fine hand gripping Erich's forearm briefly but with strength. He had offered Erich a cigarette, and their fingers had brushed as they shared it back and forth. And when the rescuing aircraft had landed and rescue was sure, Bigglesworth had clasped his shoulder in brief celebration. Erich had frozen as if Bigglesworth had stabbed him, and Bigglesworth had released him quickly.

It was insane that months later Erich could still feel each separate touch as if they had all been branded deep into the marrow of his bones. Sometimes the sensation would fill his mind, without any voluntary act of remembrance on his part, and he would feel almost sick with the lack of it. It was another offense to be chalked up to Bigglesworth's tally, that his touch, which he would undoubtedly have forgotten entirely within a few seconds, could so utterly overthrow Erich's reason and his Prussian-trained discipline.

But the hollow empty sickness for the lack of that touch was the reason that, when Zorotov quite deliberately placed his hand on Erich's knee and waited for him to object, Erich did not object, not to that or any other touch. It did not obliterate those other memories, nor did it replace them, but it was a little like them, the way acorn coffee was a little like real coffee. What Erich wanted was to have a comrade at his side, one who desired his presence wholly and truly, and whom Erich could cherish and protect with the last atom of his flesh, worship with the last drop of his blood.

What he had was Zorotov, and Zorotov called him comrade and put his hands on Erich but was a brute. Which perhaps meant Erich was a brute too, since he accepted the touch, even welcomed it. He killed Zorotov in the end, and wondered if that meant he could kill Bigglesworth too.

He could not when he was ordered to, but perhaps the order had embedded itself deep within him like slow-acting poison, because in the end he did get Bigglesworth shot.

It must have been too good, something he was not allowed, when he and Bigglesworth were in the castle together, when Bigglesworth slept quite contentedly by his side and Erich could keep watch over him, when they brushed straw off each other's clothes and sat side by side and talked. Of course Bigglesworth was for Marie, that was clear now, but Erich was allowed to be here too, or so he thought. Death stalked the hillside, but he was permitted this little glimpse of joy. He had never laid a finger on Bigglesworth except with invitation, but Bigglesworth was quite casual with him, almost possessive, as if he knew Erich belonged to him and he could be used however he willed. And Erich had dared to wonder if perhaps this might be part of his life henceforth.

That presumption had been his mistake, because finally, when Erich did seize and hold Bigglesworth without reservation, without worrying about whether his touch was wanted or sought, it was because Bigglesworth's lifeblood was running out over his hands. The bullet he had fired at Zorotov had circled the world until finally it buried itself here deep in Bigglesworth's chest, and all his betrayals were to be visited up on him.

Then Marie pushed him out of the way, gave him curt orders of where to put pressure, bandages, how to wrap Bigglesworth in blankets and hold him still as the aeroplane ricocheted over the sky, and he sat with Bigglesworth braced between his legs, hands cradling his unconscious head while Marie straddled him and fought for his life, and Erich wished he could flee the scene of his crime again, even by leaping from the aeroplane, but then Bigglesworth was breathing in slow shaky gasps and Marie was winning her fight.

Back in England, he knew he must not go near Bigglesworth again, that as Marie had stepped in to save Bigglesworth, so the course of true love should be left unhindered by the curse of his touch. A few weeks later, late at night and perhaps not quite sober, he attempted to explain this when Bigglesworth visited him pale and determined and refusing to be sent away.

"Right here, my Bigglesworth," he said, and touched the tip of his index finger very deliberately over the place the bullet had gone in. "This is what I have done to you. No more."

The trouble with Bigglesworth, right from the very beginning at Zabala, was that he never did what Erich expected. He always did something worse, something more terrifying, something more perfect. Now he took off his jacket, wincing a little at the movement in his shoulder, and then his tie, draping both on the back of the sofa. Then he unbuttoned his shirt. Erich stared.

"Here?" Bigglesworth said. The scars were red and far too many. He took Erich's hand and placed it over them, holding it flat in place with both of his own. Erich sat as if struck by lightning. "You saved my life, Erich, you and Marie together. And not for the first time, either."

"You nearly died," Erich managed to say.

"Yes. I imagine not for the last time. But when you nearly die, you have a chance to think about the things you should have done earlier."

Bigglesworth's skin was hot, there was colour now on his cheeks. Perhaps he was feverish. Perhaps Erich was feverish. He could feel each tiny movement of Bigglesworth's body through his fingers, the slight pull of muscles when he swallowed, the rise and fall of his breathing, even an echo of his pulse. Or perhaps that was Erich's pulse, racing, frenzied, like a moth beating itself against a window. Bigglesworth's hands still held his in place.

He needed to speak, to explain that this was impossible and terrible and would end in blood, but when he moved his mouth no words came, because Bigglesworth was leaning in towards him, a little unbalanced with his hands still pressing Erich's hand to him, and there was nothing Erich could do except reach out with his own free hand. And then he had Bigglesworth in an embrace, smelling of cigarette smoke and turning his face to Erich's, an inch away.

Erich kissed him like a man flinging himself from an aeroplane without a parachute, but it was Bigglesworth who fell into Erich's arms, and whatever madness had gripped Erich's body when first Bigglesworth had touched him, now it was incurable. This had happened to him in dreams and he had always woken up at this moment, Bigglesworth evaporating from his arms or falling lifeless in an ocean of blood, just as his eyes opened. But his eyes were open now and there was no blood, only the worn fabric of the sofa behind him and the fire dying neglected in the hearth and Bigglesworth solid and warm in his arms.