Chapter 10 Not Alone Anymore #2
Whitmore hauled the prisoner to his feet and marched him toward the main buildings.
I stayed where I was for a moment, catching my breath, cataloguing injuries.
Bruised ribs, probably. Split skin on my forehead from hitting the ground.
Nothing serious. Nothing that would stop me from completing the mission.
But the adrenaline was fading, and in its wake came the shakes. The familiar trembling that meant my body was processing what had just happened, what could have happened, how close I'd come to something worse.
I made myself move. One foot in front of the other. Back toward the main grounds, toward the medical hut where someone could patch up my head, toward the normal routine that would keep me functional until I could fall apart in private.
The medical hut was mercifully quiet. Dr Hart took one look at me and pointed to the examination table without a word. I sat while she cleaned the cut on my forehead, her hands efficient and impersonal.
“You'll need stitches,” she said. “Hold still.”
I held still. The needle bit into my skin, a sharp pain that was almost welcome after the dull ache of everything else.
“The saboteur,” she said as she worked. “I heard. Whitmore brought him past on the way to Finch's office.”
“Word travels fast.”
“It's a small estate.” She tied off a stitch, started another. “You did well. Could have been much worse if he'd got through the fence.”
“Could have been much worse if he'd been better with that knife.”
“But he wasn't. And you were better.” She finished the last stitch and stepped back, examining her work. “You'll have a scar. Nothing dramatic, just a thin line. The ladies will think it dashing.”
“I'll try to contain my excitement.”
She almost smiled. “Rest tonight. That's an order, not a suggestion. Your ribs are bruised, not broken, but they'll hurt worse tomorrow. Come back if the headache gets severe or your vision blurs.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
I left the medical hut feeling marginally more human and significantly more tired. The adrenaline crash was hitting properly now, that bone-deep exhaustion that came after violence, after the body remembered it was mortal and didn't much like the reminder.
I should have gone to my billet. Should have followed Dr Hart's orders and rested, let the day's events settle into memory where they could be processed and filed away.
Instead, I found myself walking toward Hut X.
Not to see Art. Not exactly. But the hut was on my patrol route, and checking in after an incident was standard procedure, and if I happened to see him through the window, happened to confirm he was safe and working and unaware of how close danger had come to the fence line, that was just professional diligence.
Lies I told myself. Comfortable, necessary lies.
I was halfway there when I heard voices. Female, animated, coming from the side of the hut where a small bench had been set up for smoke breaks. I slowed, not wanting to intrude, but curiosity got the better of me.
Ruth and Noor sat on the bench, wrapped in coats and scarves against the cold.
Noor's breath came in small white clouds as she laughed at something, her dark eyes bright with amusement.
Ruth looked less amused, her angular features set in an expression I was beginning to recognise as her default state of maternal disapproval.
And between them, looking distinctly uncomfortable, sat Art.
“You cannot keep skipping meals,” Ruth was saying. “I have watched you work through three shifts on nothing but tea and biscuits. This is not sustainable.”
“I ate breakfast,” Art protested.
“Half a piece of toast does not count as breakfast. I saw you give the other half to the cat.”
“The cat was hungry.”
“The cat is fat. You are not.” She turned to Noor. “Tell him.”
Noor held up her hands. “Don't drag me into this. I've tried. He doesn't listen.”
“I listen,” Art said. “I simply don't always agree.”
“Agreement is not required. Eating is required.” The dark-haired woman fixed him with a stare that could have melted ice.
“You are brilliant, Arthur. Possibly the most brilliant person I have ever worked with, and I have worked with many brilliant people. But brilliance means nothing if you collapse from malnutrition before the war ends.”
I'd stopped walking without meaning to, standing in the shadow of the hut's corner, watching this exchange with something between amusement and fascination.
This was a side of Art I hadn't seen before.
Not the nervous, guarded man who flinched at sudden noises and spoke in careful circles.
This was Art with people who knew him, who cared about him, who weren't afraid to tell him off.
“Ruth, I appreciate your concern—”
“Do not 'appreciate my concern' me. I am not concerned. I am stating facts.” Ruth crossed her arms. “You have lost weight since October. Your hands shake when you have not eaten. You make more errors in your calculations when you are hungry, which you will not admit but which I have noticed because I notice everything.”
“She really does,” Noor added. “It's terrifying.”
“It is efficient,” Ruth corrected. “Unlike Arthur's eating habits.”
Art's shoulders had hunched slightly, the way they did when he was overwhelmed. But there was no real distress in his posture, I realised. This was familiar to him. Comfortable, even. The kind of scolding that came from love rather than malice.
“Fine,” he said. “I'll eat dinner tonight. A full meal. With vegetables.”
“And protein.”
“And protein.”
“And you will not give any of it to the cat.”
“The cat doesn't come to the canteen.”
“The cat goes everywhere. I have seen it in Finch's office.” Ruth's expression softened slightly. “I am not trying to mother you, Arthur. I am trying to keep you alive long enough to see the end of this war. Someone has to, and God knows you will not do it yourself.”
Something shifted in Art's face. A crack in the careful composure, quickly smoothed over. “I know. I'm sorry. I get... lost. In the work.”
“We know,” Noor said gently. “That's why we're here. To drag you back to reality when you forget it exists.”
I should have walked away. Should have given them their privacy, their friendship, their small moment of human connection in a place that demanded so much inhumanity. But I was tired and hurting and something about the scene held me rooted to the spot.
Ruth noticed me first. Her eyes sharpened, assessing, and I saw her take in the fresh stitches on my forehead, the careful way I was holding my ribs, the blood I'd missed on my collar.
“Sergeant Hale,” she said. Not a question. A statement.
Art's head snapped around. His eyes went wide when he saw the state of me, and he was on his feet before I could tell him to stay seated.
“Tom. What happened?”
“Caught someone at the fence. It's handled.” I stepped out of the shadows, feeling suddenly exposed under Ruth's penetrating gaze. “Dr Hart patched me up. I'm fine.”
“You don't look fine,” Noor said. “You look like someone tried to rearrange your face.”
“They tried. They failed.” I attempted a smile, felt it come out more like a grimace. “I was just checking the perimeter. Making sure everything's secure after the incident.”
“By standing in the shadows watching us?” Ruth's tone was dry. “Interesting security protocol.”
Heat crept up the back of my neck. “I didn't want to interrupt.”
“And yet here you are. Interrupting.” She studied me for a long moment, something calculating in her expression. “You are the one who has been escorting Arthur between huts.”
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Part of my duties, ma'am.”
“Ruth. Not ma'am. I am not old enough for ma'am, and I am certainly not British enough.” She glanced at Art, then back at me. “Sit down before you fall down. You are swaying.”
I hadn't noticed I was swaying. But now that she mentioned it, the world did seem slightly unsteady, the edges of my vision fuzzy in a way that probably meant I should have listened to Dr Hart about resting.
“I should get back to—”
“Sit.” Ruth pointed at the bench. “Now.”
There was something in her voice that didn't allow for argument. The same commanding presence I'd seen in the best officers, the ones who led by sheer force of personality rather than rank. I sat.
Art hovered uncertainly, caught between wanting to come closer and whatever instinct told him to keep his distance in front of witnesses. Ruth solved the problem by shifting to make room, leaving a space on the bench between herself and me.
“Sit, Arthur. You are making me nervous with all that hovering.”
He sat. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him through our coats, far enough that no one could call it improper.
“So,” Noor said, leaning forward with undisguised curiosity. “You're the mysterious sergeant who's been taking such good care of our Arthur.”
“I wouldn't say mysterious.”
“I would. Art barely talks about anyone, and suddenly it's 'Tom said this' and 'Tom thinks that' and 'Tom brought me tea when I forgot to eat.'” She grinned. “We were starting to think he'd invented you.”
Art made a strangled sound. “I do not talk about him that much.”
“You do,” Ruth said. “You mentioned him four times yesterday. I counted.”
“That's... that's not...” Art's ears had gone pink. “There were legitimate work-related reasons for those mentions.”
“The comment about his hands was work-related?” Noor's grin widened. “What kind of work requires commentary on hand steadiness?”
“He was demonstrating rifle maintenance. It was an observation about technique.”
“Technique. Right.” Noor caught my eye and winked. “Don't worry, Sergeant. We approve. Anyone who can get Art to actually leave his desk is a miracle worker in our book.”