Author's Notes: Oh my goodness, I'm writing historical fiction! This story was written for the challenge I received in the Original Fiction Ficathon (see the link in my profile). I hope everyone enjoys it, and I hope that the person who wrote the challenge will be satisfied!

If there are any people reading this that are more well-versed in the events of the Blitz than I am, I'm really sorry for any inaccuracies.

“Nylon and Brick”

People are always the most selfish right before they die. Tom knew this well, even before the bombings, or the war. When she was alive, his mother had been a nurse in the East End of London, and he remembered watching one of her patients one night. The man was asking her for a cigarette, even though he knew it was against regulations; the man begged, swore at her, and even threw his water pitcher to the floor in a fit of temper. “Give us a break, love,” he had said in a wounded voice. “It might be my last.” Tom never would have guessed how often he’d hear those words, in the exact same pathetic tone.

Tom turned into the alleyway he’d designated as a meeting place, careful not to breathe in the acrid stench of decaying garbage. He looked around quickly, sighing. Either his contact hadn’t come through, or hadn’t really tried at all. As Tom turned to leave, a hand suddenly closed around his elbow and yanked him behind the dustbins.

“What took you so bloody long, Tommy?” The wild-eyed man glared at Tom accusingly.

“We agreed on 5:00, Schaffer,” Tom replied. “It’s only five past.”

“Yeah, well, it’s all well and good for you to be late,” Schaffer grumbled, digging into an old laundry bag. “I’m the one who’s got the goods, and unlike you, I’m not too keen on bein’ detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

“No one’s going to arrest you,” Tom sighed. “Now, do you have what I asked for?”

“Hurry up and wait, boy! Don’t rush me!” Schaffer felt around the bottom of the laundry bag, then finally pulled out what he was looking for: a fistful of women’s stockings. “Twelve pairs of nylons, all accounted for.” A roguish grin crossed his face. “Though they’ll need to stretch a bit to fit ya, Tommy.”

“They’re not for me,” Tom snapped, grabbing the stockings out of Schaffer’s hand.

“Surely Meg doesn’t need that many,” Schaffer prompted.

“If I gave Meg even one pair, she’d treat me to a good, long talk about how our soldiers need parachutes and she’s quite fine with wool, thank you very much.” Tom stuffed the stockings into his coat pocket. “No, these are for the fine ladies of the West End.”

“Ohhh,” Schaffer nodded slowly, suddenly comprehending. “Don’t they have enough already?”

“No, as they’ve made blatantly clear to me.”

“Just don’t go around flauntin’ those things, hear? McGill’s still got it out for me, and if he knows I done somethin’ illegal—”

“I thought you and McGill made up,” Tom said, disinterested.

“Word of advice, boy.” Schaffer leaned in close. “Forgive your enemies, but never forget their names.”

“I’ll treasure that. Nice as it is to see you again, Schaffer, I need to get to the West End and back by nightfall… Meg’ll have my hide if I’m not at Mickey’s by 7:30.” Tom tipped his hat slightly and turned around to walk away when Schaffer cleared his throat loudly.

“Wait a minute, Tommy.” Schaffer leaned against the dustbin, narrowing his eyes at the younger man. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Picking up some nylons?” Tom offered.

“Listen, I only did this for ya because I had nothing else better to do,” Schaffer grumbled. “But if I had a girl like Meg, I wouldn’t be out spending my last days fetching black market undergarments for some rich West End tarts.”

“Meg and I have plenty of time,” Tom replied. “But if people like you are so convinced they won’t live to tomorrow, the least I can do is provide them with a few luxuries.”

“And why’re you so convinced you will?”

Tom grinned briefly before he turned to leave. “I’m an optimist.”

---

It took Tom only fifteen minutes to reach the West End. The crowds were thinner than usual, and rapidly dispersing as the shadows grew longer. Everyone seemed to be walking in packs, only occasionally speaking to each other and never slowing down. Tom wasn’t in any rush, though. The sky was always clear and silent when the sun was in it, guarded by the constant presence of the looming, silver barrage balloons. The night would bring the wail of air raid sirens, the fierce grinding of German places and the bursts of incendiary bombs crashing from the sky.

He looked around with a grim smile; the once upscale part of the city didn’t look too different from his part of town anymore. Half of the houses and flats were either scorched or in ruins, and the streets were bathed in dust and shards of brick and glass. Smoke still hung over last night’s casualties of war, including a bed and breakfast and a popular pub with a famously tough basement. He knew it wasn’t much of a loss, though; the basement at the pub down the street was just as tough.

Tom knew that his favors for that crowd were enough to get himself and his girlfriend into one of the basement parties for the night, but sticking to their own shelter had almost become a matter of pride for both of them. The vault, nicknamed Mickey’s Shelter, was buried deep under Brushfield Street, and was home to twice as many people as it had been designed to fit. Tom hadn’t realized just how disgusting people actually were until he spent every night crammed in with ten thousand of them.

As the December wind bit through his coat, Tom pulled one of the pairs of stockings out of his pocket and wrapped it around his neck like a scarf, grinning to himself. No policeman would dare arrest him; Tom knew for a fact that if they did, at least six of them would go home to very cross wives, eager for their new stockings.

As he turned into the pub, he noted that it was nearly empty; the tables were missing, and the patrons sitting at the bar didn’t even bother to look up at him. But he knew by the dull roar under his feet that the pub was far from unoccupied. He turned the corner and opened the door that read ‘Boiler Room’ and descended down the flight of stairs and into the noise.

The tables from upstairs had been moved into the basement, and six or seven people crowded around each table, all deep in conversation. Some decorations had been hung to make the basement look more hospitable, but the water tanks and spider web of pipes dashed those efforts. At the nearest table to the stairs, a group of men were raising their glasses, and a thickly bearded man toasted in the coming year in a rumbling voice. Almost the moment Tom reached the bottom of the stairs, a group of women hurled themselves at him.

“Oh, Thomas!” one cried. “Did you get them?”

Tom offered an easy smile and pulled the eleven pairs stockings from his pockets. “One for each of you, as promised.”

One of the more heavyset ones squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “You’re a right angel, boy! I haven’t had proper stockings in ages.”

“I just wish there was some way I could repay you, Thomas…” The police chief’s wife nuzzled her head under Tom’s chin, making little pouting noises.

“Well, you did promise to pay me for the service, ma’am,” Tom said pleasantly. The women’s faces fell instantly, and they began digging into their purses with sour expressions on their faces. One by one, they shoved the money into his outstretched hand.

“It won’t make you happy,” the heavyset woman grumbled.

“Say, Thomas.” The police chief’s wife played with the leg of the stocking around Tom’s neck. “Who’s this one for?”

“Myself, of course,” Tom replied, poker-faced. “It’s cold out there.” The women all burst into tipsy giggles, a few leaning on each other for support.

“Excuse me,” a cold voice interrupted. They all turned to look at the speaker, a tall, thin man with graying hair and a Roman collar. He twisted his silver crucifix between two fingers and fixed the group with a stern look. “I was hoping to have a moment with Thomas, please.” The women giggled even harder.

“What’s he done this time, Reverend Cromwell?” a brunette laughed.

“Come back and see us later,” another cooed, stroking his cheek with a manicured finger. Cromwell took Tom by the arm and pulled him up the stairs, and, with a furtive look around, led him into a broom closet.

“Did you get it?” Cromwell asked urgently.

“Yep.” With a grin, Tom unwrapped the stockings from around his neck and handed them to Cromwell with a wink. “Kept ‘em warm for you, too.”

Reddening, Cromwell snatched the nylons from Tom’s hand and balled them up in his fist. “Don’t be obscene.”

“Those legs of yours’re what’s obscene, Reverend.” Tom smirked.

“That’s quite arrogant, you know,” Cromwell said loftily. “Assuming everyone so inclined would make a pass at you.”

“Huh?” Tom frowned at the minister.

“In your language, ‘Not bloody likely.’ And I told you,” Cromwell said in a restrained tone, “these are not for me.”

“No, they’re for your… what’s ‘is name again?”

Cromwell took a deep breath, as if making a point of letting Tom know how difficult it was to be civil with him. “Lucius. His name is Lucius.”

“Your parishioners might rather you wear the stockings,” Tom snorted. As Cromwell reached into his pocket, Tom waved a hand. “Keep it. Buy Lucius some gold earrings to go with those pretty legs.”

“Wait.” Cromwell grimaced. “I have another favor to ask tonight.”

“Sorry, can’t.” Tom shrugged. “My girl wants me at Mickey’s by 7:30.”

“It’s on your way,” Cromwell implored. “I just… I need to get to your side of town is all… discreetly.”

“Ahh, delivering the present in person, are you?” The smirk remained fixed on Tom’s face. “How discreet?”

“You know fully well that—” Cromwell began hotly.

“Very discreet, then.” Tom glanced at his watch. “6:30. Well then, Reverend, are you familiar with the tubes?”

“The Underground?” Cromwell wrinkled his nose. “I thought those were ruled unsafe…”

“Well, we’re not looking for shelter there.” Tom opened the closet door. “But it’s the most discreet you can get.”

---

“It’s filthy,” Cromwell moaned as he inched slowly down the tunnel.

“Now, that’s no way to talk about a man’s home to his face,” Tom said absently, looking at his watch. They’d been in the tubes for thirty minutes. If they hurried a bit, he’d be at the shelter by 7:30, as promised. When he noticed Cromwell looking at him questioningly, he continued. “Meg and I lived here a few months, ‘til the Bounds Green station got hit.”

“How could any animal live in a place like this?” The priest eyed a man curled up on the side of the tunnel.

“Animal?” Tom guffawed. “Being born in a stable does not make one a horse, Reverend.”

“Are you living at a shelter now?” Cromwell asked, uninterested.

“Well, we can pay rent on a flat now, can’t we? What with your generous donations and all,” Tom laughed.

“I fail to see the amusement in the situation, Thomas.”

“Come on, Reverend. Surely you don’t believe all this end of the world tripe everyone’s been spreading around.”

“If you must know, then no, I do not.” Cromwell began to speed up a bit.

“We agree, then.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Cromwell grumbled, crossing his arms. “I don’t believe in sauntering around as if those bombs would never touch me, either.”

“What’s with that tone?” Tom’s lips twitched into a smirk. “I never said I was invincible, either.”

“I’ve heard the rumors,” the priest sniffed. “They say you don’t even go into the shelters at night.”

“C’mon, do you think I’m stupid? I just take my time is all.”

“One could say that is quite stupid, yes.”

“Listen, Reverend.” Tom turned to Cromwell, his eyebrows disappearing into his thick, brown bangs. “How long have you lived here?”

“Fifty-one years,” Cromwell replied.

“That’s what I figured.” Tom nodded. “And how often have you seen it quiet?”

“It’s a city, Thomas. It never is.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Tom smiled broadly. “At dusk, just for a second… you’ll miss it if you blink, but it’s there. Every bit of the city just… stops. You should watch it sometime, Reverend.”

Cromwell was actually silent for a moment, as if turning over the thought in his mind, but he shrugged. “I think not.”

“Your loss,” Tom laughed.

“You’re awfully cavalier about all this,” Cromwell sniffed. “You don’t seem scared at all.”

“Would you rather I was curled up under a table, shaking and wetting myself?”

“It would be human,” Cromwell said with a shrug.

“Maybe I’m Satan, come to corrupt the masses,” Tom crooned in Cromwell’s ear.

“I give the Dark Prince more credit than that, at least.” Cromwell pushed Tom off with one shoulder.

Tom snorted, trying to hold back laughter. “Nah, I’m not scared. Best thing that ever happened to us, if you ask me.”

“Best thing?” Cromwell echoed, looking repulsed. “Thousands of people are dead.”

“And God rest their souls,” Tom said automatically. “But, y’know, my girl Meg, she’s always wanted to go to college. Be a lawyer and all that. She’s got the head for it, too. She just never had the cash.” He waved the money given to him by the women at the pub. “She might be able to go, y’know.”

“And what if she doesn’t live to attend college?”

“Meg?” Tom guffawed. “That woman wouldn’t die if you killed her. What’s the matter with you, Reverend? Got a problem with people living how they want?”

“This is not how people want to live.” Anger crept into Cromwell’s voice. “Those people back at the pub, they aren’t free or liberated or any of that gibberish you’re spouting, they’re just scared of dying without having lived.”

“And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Tom looked away, still smiling. “Living, I mean.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all. Well, follow me.” Tom stepped up onto the platform as they reached another station.

“This isn’t where he lives,” Cromwell said, agitated.

“It’s the closest thing to him. Besides, we’re in the East End now, Reverend,” Tom sighed. “No one’s going to recognize you here. Besides, you don’t want to keep crawling in all this filth, do you?” He waved nonchalantly at a group of people sitting in a circle by the stairs, who nodded back. “Watch your step on the stairway,” he called back to the priest. “It’s a little unsteady.”

Tom waited at the top of the stairs as Cromwell made his way up, gripping the banister all the way. “Do you know the rest of the way?” Tom asked. “I should start on over to the shelter by now… oh, well, I suppose I could wait a bit, escort you and your Lucius as well.”

“We’re not going to that shelter,” Cromwell replied, looking down the street.

“Your loss, then, it’s the strongest you can get over here.” Tom shrugged. “Where’re you going, then?”

“Well… nowhere.”

Tom gave Cromwell a long, searching look, as if trying to figure out the trick. “What do you mean, nowhere?”

“Lucius doesn’t want to go.” Cromwell avoided Tom’s stare. “He’s got everything he owns in that flat. Sick of leaving every night and wondering if it’s the last time he’ll see it.”

“You realize that’s suicide, right?” Tom said slowly. “Thought your God had a few things to say about that.”

“For heaven’s sake, Thomas, don’t lecture me on my own religion,” Cromwell snapped. “It’s not suicide. We’re just tired.”

“Why shouldn’t I lecture you? I’m following your own rules better than you are.”

“You?” Cromwell laughed bitterly. “A grasping street rat profiting off everyone else’s fears? Don’t try to take the moral high ground here, son. You’ll just embarrass yourself.”

“I seem to remember you being as eager as the rest to take advantage of my services, Reverend.” Tom waved a hand dismissively. “At least your worshippers are openly selfish.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Cromwell asked desperately. “You and those women back there and all of my parishioners have the freedom to do everything they’ve ever wanted. And me? I’m supposed to be strong for them. I have to act even more pious than I did before this goddamned war. If I was killed tonight, I wouldn’t have gotten anything I wanted. Nothing.”

“Aren’t priests supposed to tell people to have faith?” Tom turned around and began to walk. “Start with that.”

“That’s just empty advice,” Cromwell scoffed.

“Well, then you have a problem there, don’t you?” Tom began to stride away.

“Maybe I want to see it, too!”

Tom turned slowly to look at the priest, who stared after him helplessly. “Maybe we want to watch it,” Cromwell continued. “That one quiet second at dusk.”

For a long moment, they stood, watching each other across the broken street. Slowly, Tom turned, continuing to walk away. “May God be with you, Reverend.” His voice was hollow, lacking any sort of conviction, but it seemed like the only thing to say.

As he left the priest behind, he slowed to a leisurely stroll down the sidewalks that were now nearly empty.

Tom checked his watch again. 7:15. He could see the sun sinking slowly through the holes in the clouds, and he matched its pace, filled with a sudden confidence. As he reached Brushfield Street, he stopped all together and leaned against a lamppost, breathing in as much fresh oxygen as he could, as if it would carry him through the night of stale, rancid air. As the sun dipped below the hills and out of sight, he felt the night’s chill slowly descend on the city. The winds picked up, rocking the barrage balloons like restless silver ghosts and kicking the dust into a cloud that covered the street.

The air raid siren ripped through the cloud like a stray bullet.