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Hair of fresh soap. Breath of coffee. Clothes of early morning drizzle and leather. The first time Collins learns what Farrier smells like they don't really know each other. Seen each other, yes, walked past each other and even nodded at each other, of course: it was a matter of formality. You had to be respectful towards older, more experienced recruits.
There's been an issue with the shipping of their winter gear, delayed by a day or two due to a miscommunication, but their schedule has gone on. Not an hour to lose with the war raging on and their troops on the front line. Nobody wants to be idle, either.
Except.
Well. Standing barefoot in the soon-to-be-frozen lake, more than one of the lads is regretting their patriotism, for once.
"Holy Mary," Mickey mutters under his breath, and he shoots a glance to Collins, who's standing next to him sporting a very similar painful expression, "can't feel my toes."
Collins offers a smile and looks to his right where their instructor's standing seemingly trying his best not to burst out laughing himself.
"Very well chaps, let's make it quick, you'll be back at the steaming hot showers in no time! Nice bowl of chicken soup waitin' for you all," he grabs his whistle with one hand and takes a step closer to the line of stripped-down trainees waiting to lunge forward into the freezing cold water, "do you all see the buoy, over there?"
"Yes, sir!"
Collins notices Mickey squinting with the corner of his eye and takes pity.
"Blue one," he whispers.
"Swim up, touch it, swim back, you're done," Corporal Adams continues, "easy peasy."
Collins shifts his weight from foot to foot and clenches his fists anxiously, the rest of the lads move in their places as well, no doubt itching to answer a bunch of colourful curses to that remark. They know better.
"Two minutes! A second off and you're making your way back on foot!"
Now that stirs up a bit of alarm.
"Bleedin' hell," Mickey curses again in that welsh accent.
It's as if Adams hears him from the other corner: "Jones! You're up first!"
He doesn't even have time to recover from the shock, soon as the whistle is heard he's stumbling forward and diving in sloppily. Collins watches their instructor make a face, then returns his gaze forward and sees that Mickey's already going off diagonally.
Jesus.
"Go to your right, man!" Adams shouts a few moments later, much to everyone's relief.
"Blind as a bat," someone mutters near, prompting some giggling.
Mickey makes a sudden stop, shakes the hair out of his eyes and runs a hand over his face, definitely squinting again to make out the shape of their landmark in front. Then he starts going for it again, this time in the right direction.
His friend emerges from the water and steps back on land as sloppily as he took off. Collins knows he hasn't made it but he doesn't stop to feel sorry for him because he's next: he's jumping in soon as the whistle touches Corporal Adams' lips.
On and on they go, the twelve of them. The worst part is waiting for the rest to be done, just standing there, the thinnest of clothes feeling even thinner, summer shirts and pants and still barefoot, standing back so that the water doesn't reach them but trembling like leaves about to take flight.
The truck waiting to drive them back has its engine roaring by the time the last of them is done, and Collins almost misses out on his name being called out because he's too busy looking at Farrier retrieving a pile of white towels from it.
"Evans, Woodhall, Collins, hop back on," Adams nods towards the vehicle, "the rest of you, boots on and start marching, get that blood pumping back up!"
This time, their unhappiness is a little bit less inconspicuous.
"I still don' even 'av my size," Jules complains as he slumps back on the sand and starts lacing up his boots tightly. Collins gets joined by another of the lucky few.
"I thought we were joining the Air Force," Evans blurts out, his hair still dripping water and his broad shoulders completely visible where his shirt has stuck to his drenching skin, "not the fuckin' marines."
Collins doesn't answer, because he's having enough trouble already with breathing steadily. He's very happy about not giving a reaction just a second later.
"Evans, I see you're up for some more exercise!" Corporal Adams chimes in, "grab a towel and start running."
"Yes, sir!"
Woodhall catches up now, and him and Collins exchange a meaningful look.
"One of you can ride shotgun," Farrier interrupts just as they're both about to climb back up the rear, and they exchange looks again.
"You go," Collins says.
"Collins can," Woodhall answers at the same time. He's a chatty redhead, all skin and bones, a country boy that looks barely legal for enlisting.
Collins climbs on the truck before he beats him to it.
"You go," he repeats, and Farrier doesn't waste a second: he pats Charlie on the back and sends him away as he climbs up. Collins is all wrapped up on his own towel and watches as the officer takes a seat on the bench opposite, wearing his impeccable blue uniform underneath a bomber jacket.
He realises he's staring at him only when the truck starts moving, almost jolting him out of place.
"That was nice," he offers, sending a strained smile to Farrier that's looking down on the rest of the group trotting up the path, becoming smaller and smaller as they drive away.
"I'd have you in there as well but there's only room for one," Farrier says looking back at him, "it's too damn cold for this exercise, you still don't have proper winter clothes for it."
"Needs must," Collins answers, teeth starting to clatter and knuckles starting to hurt from keeping the towel closed over his chest against the incessant wind threatening to send it flying away, "least I ain't walking," he adds, but when he looks back to his mates the army truck turns a corner and he doesn't see them anymore.
Poor bastards, he thinks, except he also realises that the height and the speed of the truck very well make this a worse fate, even if they get back to base sooner.
He grunts at that, and suddenly Farrier's taking a step forward and sitting down next to him.
"You're Jack, right?"
With him there, built up like a brick wall, the wind doesn't quite feel as deadly. He nods.
"Aye, sir," he blurts out, voice hoarse and cold starting to make his ears pump painfully. He reaches one hand up and quickly dries off his hair. A hat. A woollen hat would be heavenly right now. Earmuffs!
"Are you warm enough?" Farrier asks, and Collins makes the very grave mistake of turning to him to respond. He's too close.
"No," he chuckles, nervously, because it's a very stupid question. He's wearing summer trousers and a very wet shirt and a standard army-issued blazer that's quickly catching on the dampness of his skin. His towel is the driest thing he's got to combat the chill, and it's not even that dry.
"Figured."
When Farrier moves again next to him, Collins keeps his eyes forward but sees him shift closer with the corner of his eye and before he knows it that bomber jacket is on his shoulders.
It's just as well that he doesn't know what to say because he breaks into a cough almost immediately.
"Bloody hell," Farrier exclaims, and now Collins feels something much harder than that jacket, much firmer around his back, and realises with alarm that the officer is keeping him close with an arm on his shoulders, "this is madness."
Collins can tell he's still talking, but all he can register is the comforting hum of his voice as a background noise underneath the ringing in his ears. He smells coffee, and leather and soap, and relishes in the sudden warmth around him. He's too dumbfounded by the closeness and too drained to even think to move away or consider the consequences of it.
"...lucky if you don't catch pneumonia. I'd like to see the Marshal's face when you're all unfit for practical training just because they couldn't wait another damn day for those uniforms to arrive."
The jacket gets more firmly wrapped around him and Collins notices languidly that a warm hand is brushing his knuckles where he's keeping the towel closed on his stomach. He blinks.
"You alright?"
The voice is in his ear.
Farrier is hugging him. There's no other word for it.
"Hm-hmm," is all he manages to answer, and realises that he still hasn't said a word of gratitude, "thank you, sir."
"Just Farrier."
"Head's killing me."
"We'll be there in a couple of minutes, just keep your eyes open."
Collins forgets just how close they are and turns to frown at him.
"I am," he says, puzzled because he's freezing his bollocks off but he's not that out of himself that he wouldn't realise he's dozing off because of it.
Farrier regards him with a stern look but doesn't push it, making him feel a little bit like a child throwing a tantrum.
"Very well," Farrier says, and when Collins coughs again he moves in tandem.
So close.
'A couple of minutes' turn into a quarter of an hour in which Farrier just keeps on asking him stuff, and half-way through when he suddenly can't remember what the question was, Collins realises that he has, in fact, gone completely off for half a minute.
"Collins?"
He blinks and suddenly Farrier's in a different angle and he can feel the stubble of his chin on the tip of his nose. He's too lethargic to take note of it.
"Collins."
"Mnot asleep," he answers sitting back straight, words slurred and lips completely numb. He feels Farrier shifting his position next to him and stubbornly opens his eyes. I can't feel my feet.
"We're almost there."
"Said that ten minutes ago," Collins bites back despite himself, then sense catches up with him and he adds: "sir."
Farrier laughs and Jack feels it in his bones.
"Bit of a sharp tongue, you Scots."
At that, Collins reacts in a way that can only be described as uncalled for: the word 'tongue' coming from Farrier, who's been there since day one, looking illustrious and knowledgeable and approachable, coming to sit with them over dinner and listen to their ranting, offering an encouraging word and looking at Collins a bit too much even when he's not the one speaking, he can only swallow through a very parched throat and go blank.
Because Farrier is too close, so close that he can smell his shaving cream because he actually buried his nose in his neck just a moment ago when he insisted he hadn't dozed off, because he's the type of man Collins would've approached at a dim-lighted pub sometime before the war broke out in '39.
Because one of his arms is firmly on his left shoulder keeping him in place throughout the bumpy ride back to headquarters and the other one hasn't moved from his own fists where his knuckles were turning red, and because when he speaks Collins can feel his hot breath on his cheek and it makes him even dizzier.
"Ye got a wife waitin', sir? Back home?"
His filter is off once again, but he thinks Farrier won't think twice of it, not when he was asking about Scotland and his family a few moments before.
Perhaps it's a bit too specific a question because he doesn't answer right away.
Collins coughs again and thinks he gets away with it, if only by looking like a kicked puppy. He also doesn't feel his nose anymore.
"I haven't."
The truck comes to a stop and when Collins turns his head around he sees the imposing building of the university stretching up into the sky he can't help but let out a whine.
Farrier stands up along with him as if fearing he'll stumble and fall on his face. Collins grabs the bomber jacket off his own shoulders with trembling hands and gives it back because it doesn't look like Farrier is going to ask for it and because he doesn't want Charlie to tease him about it.
The officer nods shortly and jumps off the truck first, landing graciously on the ground. Collins has the feeling he keeps an eye on him too intently and wonders just how much worse for wear he's looking if he's concerned about him taking a step down a bloody army truck.
Charlie walks beside him, looking much more lively than when he last saw him.
"Straight to the showers," Farrier tells them both as a way of dismissal, as if they intended to do something else.