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Blenkinsop isn’t back yet. His patrol was due an hour ago, and Maltravers cannot fight the dread sitting heavy and aching in the pit of his stomach. He tries to settle and just wait, to at least rest his throbbing muscles, but his body simply won’t allow it. Without Blenkinsop in the cot beside him, there is no respite to be had.
He quietly makes a nuisance of himself, stalking about the dug out, barking questions at anyone who might know anything. No one can tell him anything helpful; they just smile sadly, until Maltravers is forced to look away.
Blenkinsop will be fine. Surely if something happened to him, Maltravers would know. He would feel it. Blenkinsop is fine. He has to be.
Maltravers swallows hard. The next place to check is the first aid station. He isn’t there and Maltravers doesn’t know whether or not to be thankful for that.
A young nurse sits with him for a while, asking him about his friend. Until he knows Blenkinsop is safe, though, Maltravers can’t share him, so he gives deliberately vague answers and she smiles like she understands.
She eventually sends him back to the dug out. If there is a rush of casualties, which is looking more and more likely as the patrol grows more and more overdue, he will only be in the way.
Maltravers ends up back in the officers’ dug out, trying to tamp down on the flame of panic that is licking at his insides. One of the other men, Hartnett, comes over and collects him. He grabs Maltravers by the arm and leads him over to Blenkinsop’s cot. “Just lie down for a little bit, please. No need to sleep or anything, just rest. Your boy will be back soon enough.”
He was so gentle; Maltravers tries to smile at him, though it is probably closer to a grimace. “Thanks, old top,” he murmurs, words scraping at his throat, leaving it raw and aching.
“Any time.”
He buried his head in Blenkinsop’s pillow, inhaling deeply, and very carefully doesn’t cry. That is how he remains until the sun begins her slow climb over the horizon.
He startles when someone rests a cold hand on his back. “I do believe that is my bed, old bean,” Blenkinsop said quietly.
He doesn’t even try to stop the sob, torn from somewhere deep in his gut.
Blenkinsop rubs his back gently. “There, there, dear boy. I’m alright. We were just pinned down for a while, we got everyone back safe and sound.”
Maltravers doesn’t have any breath spare to form words, so he hauls himself upright and pulls Blenkinsop tight. He is ice cold, covered in mud, and shivering violently, and Maltravers clings a little harder.
Blenkinsop pulls back just a little, apologising quietly. He works his hands in under Maltravers’ shirt, pressing freezing hands against warmer skin. Maltravers sobs again as Blenkinsop’s cold fingers settle along his ribs.
“I’m perfectly alright,” Blenkinsop says quietly, “Just a little cold.”
He finally finds his voice. “You are never to leave this trench without me ever again,” he breathes against Blenkinsop’s neck.
Blenkinsop gives a small puff of laughter, and replies, “I’m not sure the generals would agree with that.”
Maltravers forced his unwilling limbs to let Blenkinsop go. “You need to change into something drier, dear boy, so you can sleep,” he said quietly, “You’ll catch your death otherwise.” His voice cracks a little on the word ‘death’, but Blenkinsop kindly doesn’t comment.
He does change, even though his spare uniform is only slightly drier and no less filthy, and climbs into the cot, twisting his lanky body around Maltravers. He stays still and quiet as Maltravers hands carefully explore every inch of his skin, making sure he is still whole. They are too tired, cold, battered, to do anything more, so Blenkinsop sleeps and Maltravers stands guard over him.