Chapter Text
“Stop, stop-”
The moment Blake screams, Schofield’s heart stops.
Schofield is familiar with screams like the one from Blake’s mouth. Noises that convey the pure terror of a man condemned to take his last breath on a battlefield. A sound almost animalistic, full of pure desperation and vulnerability. Those screams are one of the only things he can recall from the Somme, that, and the smell. Gunpowder, blood, mud, corpses, the scent of total despair. It's always the small things that stick with you.
That scream was different, though. Unlike the others, that scream was Blake’s. Someone close to Schofield, not just someone he shared a trench with. The scream was from his best friend, the man who saved his life not even an hour ago.
“No, no, no.”
Schofield’s words come out as a fear-filled shout. Not aggressive, just scared, which has been a fairly frequent feeling these past couple of days. The unadulterated terror he is feeling controls his movements. It pushes him to bring up his gun and fire off two bullets, both going somewhere into the German’s torso.
“He’s certainly been put out of his misery, the bastard,” Schofield thinks while watching the German slump over as he runs to Blake, who’s desperately clutching his wound.
Schofield almost feels angry at Blake. Blake insisted on helping that German pilot, despite the obvious risk. Then he sent Schofield to get water, increasing the danger tenfold.
But still, Schofield could’ve refused to walk away, no one was forcing him to get that water. He could’ve kept an eye on Blake and kept his gun ready to shoot. But he didn’t. If anyone’s to blame, it’s him. Schofield was chosen, he was supposed to protect Blake, just like Blake protected him.
Blake looks at the now-deceased pilot, and then at the blood on his hand. His blood. There’s so much of it that it’s almost pooling in his hand. Blake puts a hand back on his wound while his other fumbles around in his pockets.
Schofield doesn’t try to assist him, he simply stays frozen.
Schofield has seen hundreds of injured men and has been injured numerous times himself. He’s been in the war practically since it started, there’s no avoiding injury and death, whether it’s your own or others. But this is Blake, it's different when it’s someone you love who’s been injured, especially when any injury out here can take a man out in a matter of a couple of days, hours, or even minutes.
It doesn’t look good, considering the amount of blood that Blake’s hand was covered in.
While Schofield is still unable to move, Blake stumbles to his feet with the bandages in his hand, clutching his abdomen tightly as the motion sends his nerves alight with pain. He groans lightly as he staggers closer to Schofield, who now has a downright horrified look on his face.
“The bastard he, he-” Blake starts unbuttoning his uniform, and finally pulls up his tunic to reveal the wound, breathing heavily as he does it, “he took a bloody slice out of me!”
Schofield only glances at the cut, and it’s enough to make whatever he ate this morning want to come right back up. It’s deep. Deep enough that you can see the fat that lies under the skin. He's never seen something like it before, especially considering it's strange to see injuries caused by knives out here. It’s also unusual to see injuries that aren’t actively bleeding.
There was a bit of blood around the wound, but Blake’s hand was dripping with it, there should be more.
“Have you not been stabbed? Where’s all the blood coming from?” Schofield asks panicked, while simultaneously getting the dressings out of his pack. It’s not making sense, there’s no blood on the wound, yet earlier when Blake pulled his hand from his wound it was covered in it.
His questions are answered when Blake opens the hand not holding his tunic, flinching as he does so. The bandages that Blake retrieved from his pockets are soaked with red, and as he takes them off, Schofield sees the source. There’s a gash right across the hand, one that’s deep and jagged, almost looking like it couldn’t have been done with a blade.
“God…”
The injury is disturbing, but he’s glad it’s not worse. It easily could’ve been worse. The amount of blood that was on Blake’s hand initially made him think that surely the German pilot had nicked an artery, surely Blake was a goner.
Now that there’s less pure dread coursing through his veins, Schofield can think rationally. He motions for Blake to sit down on the ground, and when he does he kneels himself. Carefully, Schofield takes Blake’s injured hand, wrapping the cloth around it two or three times and tucking the end in when he’s done. Blake’s quiet while he does it, but the pain is evident on his face.
Blake’s always been expressive, it’s just in his nature. It’s part of how he endeared himself to Schofield, it’s easier to be friends with someone and not have to guess what’s going on in their head. It also gives Schofield a good laugh here and there as well. He just has always liked people who wear their hearts on their sleeves. It’s something that he considers a positive personality trait, and he’s always appreciated it in Blake.
Maybe not now, though. Not when Blake’s in pain.
“How do you reckon you’re gonna bandage my stomach up? They really don't give us enough wrapping for much more than a hand-wound,” Blake says, looking down at the gash on his torso. He’s right, there’s no way they can wrap the cloth around his torso enough times to have it stay. Blake will have to hold it to the wound. He can’t go the rest of the journey while down both hands and importantly, a gaping slice taken out of his torso.
“Here’s what has to happen, you hold the wrapping to your wound with your good hand, we walk to the aid post, and then I continue on,” Schofield states with finality.
Despite how little room for protest there is, Blake opens his mouth, as he always does, “Are you mad!? You can’t just waltz into German territory alone! The wound is barely even a scratch, I can still make the journey with you!”
Schofield stares at Blake, not hiding his incredulity at what just came out of his mouth. First at his blatant hypocrisy, considering Blake was willing to go through German territory alone only minutes after they got orders. Second, because there’s no world where the cut on Blake’s stomach is a scratch, it looks like what you would find under the definition of laceration in a medical textbook! Then there’s his hand injury, which looks like something done by a wild animal rather than a knife. More severe than what Schofield did to his hand, and even that injury is dangerous.
“Ok, well, maybe it’s not a scratch…” Blake concedes, now looking sheepish, but still determined, “But I really do think I’m fine to go with you, I can push through it.”
He most certainly won’t be able to ‘push through it.’ Schofield knows Blake, and he knows that he cannot handle pain, he makes it quite obvious.
Thinking through his options, Schofield sighs. Blake is stubborn when he’s passionate about something, and Schofield often gives in. Blake’s stubbornness is almost always born out of his good nature, so it’s hard not to. This time, though, there is no doubt in his mind that Blake cannot come with him. Blake’s good nature has almost gotten them killed twice today, he’s not going to risk a third time.
Suddenly, an idea pops into Schofield’s head.
“Alright, let’s make a deal,” Schofield suggests, trying to muster up a smile, “If you can walk to the door of the farmhouse without struggling, you can come with me. If you can’t, then we go to the aid post and I go on without you.”
Blake seems to briefly think about it, doubt flashing across his face for a split second. However, that doubt is quickly replaced by a determined look as Blake grins.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Scho,” Blake says, confident as ever while offering his good hand to Schofield.
They shake hands, and Blake immediately turns on his heel to walk over to the farmhouse. He starts small with the first two steps, but he makes the mistake of trying to go for a longer stride on the third. Schofield watches as Blake puts his hand over his wound, seemingly trying to be stealthy about it. Even though Schofield notices, he lets Blake continue his trek over to the door.
After around the tenth step, Blake groans in pain but tries to continue with much slower and much smaller steps than before. Feeling a bit guilty, Schofield walks over to stop Blake from going any further. Slowly, he helps Blake sit down.
“I- I suppose that I’ll be going to that aid post, then.”
“Yes, I suppose you will,” Schofield smiles sadly at him.
The fact that Blake thought he could still complete the mission would make some people think he’s stupid or that he can’t admit defeat. Schofield knows better, though. Not only does Blake feel guilty that he has to leave Schofield, he’s likely scared. They both know that there’s a good chance Schofield isn’t making it out of this, and Blake would likely never forgive himself if that happened.
That’s the thing, though, Schofield can’t let Blake come because he could never forgive himself if something happened to Blake. There’s a fierce protectiveness he feels for Blake, it’s the reason why he argued ‘age over beauty’ before climbing over the trench walls. It’s not like he wanted to leave the trenches first, no, he just didn’t want Blake to have to.
Similarly, he doesn’t want to be left alone to deliver Erinmore’s message, but he doesn’t want Blake to have to come. This time, though, it’s not like there’s much of a choice. Blake can’t walk more than a couple of meters, there’s no chance of him walking however many kilometers are left.
The aid post is around half a kilometer away, so they have to head out soon to get there while also giving Schofield enough time to get to the Second Devons by morning. Standing up, he offers a hand to Blake.
“Hey, saw that plane going down, are you lot alright?”
Suddenly, two men are standing beside Schofield and Blake, one just having spoken. Before either can respond, the other man pipes up.
“Shit, I guess he’s not!” one of the men exclaims, specifically eyeing Blake’s hand, “D’you need some more wrapping?”
Blake and Schofield both look down and, lo and behold, the bandages on Blake’s hand are soaked through with blood. Schofield nods yes, and the man who mentioned the wrapping hands it over.
He reaches for Blake’s hand without thinking, eliciting a pained hiss. Schofield flinches and mutters out a sorry before he starts to unwrap the bloody cloth. The wound is surprisingly still bleeding, but thankfully not enough to warrant emergency stitches. Someone early in the war gave him the idea to keep a bit of fishing line and a needle in his pack, but it hurts like hell and is a great way to get an infection.
Schofield quickly rewraps Blake’s hand and drops it to dig in his pocket. He finds what he’s looking for, the last of his dressings, which he folds up. He gives it to Blake, who takes it and pulls his tunic up to place it directly on his wound.
“Hey, will you lads be going past an aid post?” Blake asks after he sees the men staring at his cut.
One of the men opens his mouth to answer but is interrupted. “It’s on our way, Corporals. What are you two doing out here in the first place?”
Schofield turns to the new voice. The man is seemingly a Captain. Schofield and Blake look at each other, having a sort of silent conversation, a skill you develop during war. They both know what this means, they can hitch a ride, making it substantially easier to get to an aid post.
“We were sent to deliver an urgent message to the Second Devons, sir, orders to stop tomorrow morning’s attack. I’ve been injured, and I need to get to an aid post,” Blake says, straightening his back the best he can with his wound.
The man nods then turns to look at Schofield. “So I suppose that means you’ll be going on your own?” Schofield simply nods, so the man continues. “Where are they stationed?”
“They’re stationed just beyond Ecoust, sir.”
“Alright, well in that case both of you come with me,” he orders, “Parry, Atkins, go fetch their things.”
“That German was out to kill me, I swear! I was helping the bloody bastard, and then he started slicing up my tunic with that knife of his,” Blake motions towards his ripped-up shirt, “then without thinking, I grabbed the blade. It wasn't really the brightest thing I’ve ever done, but I stopped him from going any deeper. He probably would’ve too, I reckon his goal was to gut me!”
Blake has always had a way of spinning his stories that gets everyone in the room intrigued. He certainly piqued Schofield’s interest, which isn’t something that many people have been able to do since the Somme.
“Out for blood, they are. Those Huns are something else,” one of the men in the truck with them mutters.
Now multiple men break out into chatter about the no-good Germans. Schofield doesn’t have anything good to say about them either, not after the day he’s had. He can’t say he hates them though, there’s no way he can after he saw the names of girlfriends on the walls, ‘Elsa,’ ‘Klara,’ and the picture of the two little girls that he saw on one of the bunks. They all have families, lovers, lives. It’s hard to hate people who are just like yourself.
He doesn’t hate the Germans, not all of them. No, he hates war. All of these men do, who wouldn’t? That’s why they’re all moaning about practically everything. It’s all terrible out here, simply because of the war.
Suddenly, the truck lurches to a stop. Complaints and groans come from almost every man in the vicinity. The driver calls through the canvas that the bridge is down.
Schofield sighs and turns to Blake, “Blake, I-”
He doesn’t know what to say. If he’s going to be realistic, this may be the last time they see each other. Anything could happen, either of them could die.
He supposes there’s no better time than now to be brave.
“Tom. I’ll write to you as soon as I’ve delivered the letter and talked to your brother. I’ll tell him to write you if you want. If you don’t hear back from me, well… write my sister. Please…”
“Yeah Will, of course…” Blake says, sounding like he’s on the verge of tears, “I’ll be waiting for that letter from both you and Joe, I know it’ll come.”
Getting up to hop out of the truck, he smiles sadly for what feels like the hundredth time today, “Take care of yourself, Tom.”
“You too, don’t be going and doing anything reckless now,” Tom jokes, getting a chuckle out of Will.
Other men wish him good luck, but it doesn’t matter. Tom’s wave goodbye is the only thing he focuses on, and it gives him the courage to jump out of the truck into the new landscape.
The Captain approaches him, informing him of the bridge six miles ahead. Schofield lets him know that he has to leave now to deliver the message in time. They converse until finally they shake hands and he wishes Schofield good luck. The Captain starts to walk away, but he turns back around.
“We’ll still be going past the aid post, your friend will be in good hands.”
Schofield nods. Admittedly, he was worrying about that. He doesn’t want this to have been the last time they speak to each other, but if it is then he’d prefer that Tom be the one who survives. Tom dying would probably kill Schofield in one way or another, he simply wouldn’t be able to make it to the end of the war without Tom’s constant jabbering. Tom and his stories are too ingrained into his life now.
The thing is, it wasn’t a choice to become friends with Tom. Not only was Tom persistent in his efforts to befriend Will, but he was charming and funny, Will’s never laughed harder than he has with Tom. Will simply couldn’t resist, even though he tried to at first. It was pointless of him to even attempt to keep his guard up.
If Will’s being honest with himself, there are other reasons why he let his guard down so easily.
Tom’s a good-looking bloke. Well, objectively. Then there are the non-platonic feelings. Those developed ages ago, only a bit after they became friends, and it was inevitable really. How was Will supposed to avoid it? The fact that Will has been with Tom all day every day since they met certainly didn’t help. They’re practically inseparable, always have been.
Quite honestly, he doesn’t care if he and Tom will only ever just be friends. He enjoys being around him, which he can’t say about too many people. He wouldn’t want to lose Tom if he didn’t have to. Before Tom came around, he was just… lonely. He wouldn’t want to go back to that.
But now he has. He’s completely alone for the first time since he met Tom.