Never Shall Be Slaves, Epilogue

[dolevalan]

Title: Never Shall Be Slaves
Co-author Credit: abnormal_sea
Fandom(s): Richard Carstone is from Bleak House by Charles Dickens. Tom Jones is from the novel of the same name by Henry Fielding. Danny Sloane (Arthur's younger brother) also makes a brief cameo appearance.
Rating: PG-13, overall, for violence and some language.

Author's Notes: I know I said fifteen parts, but I redivided it, so this is the fourteenth and final installment. If anyone was wildly interested, we have since done another A.U. with the boys over at jarndyceheir, but that one doesn't flow quite as well dramatically, so I'm not going to post it here. I hope if you took the time to read this unwieldy thing, that you did enjoy it. Cheers.



They were going home. It had been several weeks at the hospital; Richard's recovery had been a near thing, much nearer than any of the doctors told Tom. But slowly, with care, he had begun to mend. Just a few days before the end of the war in Europe, the decision came that he (and consequently Tom, who everyone had given up trying to get to leave without Richard) was well enough to travel.

So here was Richard. He was in borrowed civilian clothes, paler and thinner than he had once been, but standing on his own power, and looking thoughtfully at the plane that would take them back to England. That would take them home.

Tom came up to Richard. He looked better, happier than he had been in a long time. He still had to remind himself not to speak German, but he would now speak English to anyone who cared to listen. He had also been re-taught what exactly had happened during the war.

"They didn't bomb Parliament," he said while still standing a bit behind Richard.

"So I heard." Richard turned to Tom with a wispy smile. "The Yankees didn't give you any candy, did they? I have a strange craving for those awful little strawberry buggers."

"I still have a few in my pocket, sir." Tom began digging around for them. It was a habit that was hard to break. If he was given candy he would save it for Richard. Due to the doctor's orders about what Richard could and couldn't eat, Tom had a lot of candy saved.

With a quiet smile (his smile was always quiet, now), Richard put his hand on Tom's forearm. "It's alright, Jones."

"You don't want one..." Tom stopped, thought, and then smiled. "How are you feeling, sir?"

"Better. It's good to be outside." Richard tilted his head up, to the sun. "How are you doing, Jones?" He wasn't asking about being sick: at least not the same way Tom had been.

"Good, sir. I'm ready to go home and start working on that family."

Richard’s smile widened a bit without deepening, still half turned from Tom. "And think. If I'd been a better field surgeon, Sophie wouldn't have anything to fuss over, poor lady."

"Yes. And you get to go back to Ada." Tom grinned. "I'll start looking for a house next to mine."

"Hm." Richard slipped his hands in his pockets, looking thoughtful.

"Sir?"

Richard turned back to Tom with the same expression. "I know I should be happy to go home. And I am. God, I want to see England. To see Esther and Mr. Jarndyce and Ada. But..." He shook his head. "I don't know. For some reason I can't quite believe that all that was the real part. It seems... flimsier, somehow, than Germany." His lips quirked, and he turned to look back at the plane. "How did you put up with all my babbling so long?"

"I babbled back, sir," Tom said, simply.

"You also saved my life, Tom. I think that makes up for it."

Tom snorted. "The Americans did that, sir. I sat there and shot them and acted like a fool."

"I didn't mean from the typhus."

"Then from what, sir?" Tom had been of the opinion that Richard had saved him up until that point.

"Some people are just strong because they're made that way, Jones. It's how they are. I'm not one of those people." Richard took a deep breath, still unused to being able to do so without his chest rattling. "But I needed to at least try to be a commander, with you there, even if I was a piss poor one. And it kept me going." He looked back at Tom. "So... thank you."

"Well, then we must have kept each other going, sir. I'm not a very strong person."

Another quiet smile. "War's almost over. Call me Rick."

Tom smiled a little. "Alright. We must have kept each other going, Rick."

"I think I can accept that." A little pause. "Will you come to London, sometime? We've got plenty of room, if you'd like to stay."

"I'd like that, si- Rick. But you have to remember to come out to the country. I think you'd like it there."

"Alright. I will."

An American pilot, who had introduced himself to Tom earlier as Jack O'Donnell, strode up behind them. "You boys all ready?"

"Yes. Yes, I am." Tom was practically beaming and he looked over at Richard to see how he was doing, out of habit.

Richard nodded. "Whenever you are, captain."

O'Donnell smiled, big and bright. "Off we go into the wild blue yonder, then." He strode off towards the plane, and privately, he reminded Richard of a brasher version of Seward, which won a truer but sadder smile.

Richard turned to Tom. "Shall we go, then?"

Tom nodded and they boarded the plane together. "What is the first thing you're going to do when you get back, Rick?"

"Bloody hell. I'm going to take the world's longest bath. Just lie there and soak, totally alone." He ran his hand through his still-short but growing hair. "What about you?"

"I'm going to eat. I'm going to eat whatever I want for as long as I want and no one will stop me or tell me it isn't "nutritious." And then I'm going to sing as loudly and badly as I want."

Richard smiled and there was the smallest hint of a tease in his eyes. "Well, that's good, as singing well might present a bit of a problem." And then plane's motor started up, reverberating in the metal interior.

"You're a cruel man, Rick, a cruel man. I'll have you know that my singing was part of what forced them to leave us."

Richard laughed as the plane started down the small runway, shadowed but still true. And then they were going home.