11 June, evening - Coming Clean

"You got any water?" Yves Balincourt sagged against the wheel of the wagon, his eyes half closed. He didn't feel the rungs digging into his back; in his opiate daze, he didn't feel much of anything beyond the lingering warmth of the evening. Even the pain in his leg, near constant over the past few days, seemed to have disappeared. There was a reason for that, something he was forgetting, but he pushed the thought away sleepily.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Paol fished off his canteen and handed it up to Yves, then flopped back in the grass.

"I'm back on duty soon. You goin' to be alright out here?"

"Yves?" he prompted after the silence had dragged out some moments, "I can help you back in the wagon, if you like?"

There was another long pause, but at length Balincourt murmured, "What's he doin' here?"

"Who?"

"The officer from the woods. Or...no, not him, that man from the wagon. The one who was here before."

Paol frowned up at the underside of the wagon. "You're dreamin', mate."

"No, it ain't that. He's--"

But by then Paol could hear the approaching footsteps and craned his neck for a better view. Sure enough, a figure was approaching. In officers' dress.

Paol sat up sharply, cracking his forehead on the undercarriage of the wagon, and fell back, momentarily stunned. Muttering several choice words in Breton, he ducked out of the way and scrambled to his feet, offering a clumsy salute.

The distance between the wagon and his tent felt great, even if on any other given day, when at full strength, he could have walked it day in and day out. He had to pause, and would have done so, if he had not noticed that he had been seen.

Straightening a little, even if this had caused him pain, he approached the pair of soldiers, looking amused as he recognised the one that had just knocked his head on the undercarriage of the wagon. "...You do not need to hasten to stand so." He spoke in a light tone. "..at ease." He gave in ways of formality.

The truth was out without his need to speak it. His coat and it's marks of rank were more easily recognisable, and though a sous-lieutenant, subordinate to his friend, he was still an officer. He stood perhaps higher than a private soldier, higher than Paol Kerjean.

"May I speak with you." He asked the man, though he nodded another greeting to the unfortunate wounded. "Good evening."

He stared at the officer in manifest confusion. The voice, the face, it was all familiar, but there had to be a mistake. It couldn't be right, and yet everything from the man's uniform to his bearing confirmed that it was.

Paol had long ago ceased to be surprised by his own stupidity, but this was a new low, even for him. It was almost impressive.

Heat suffused his face and he dropped his gaze. Christ, he thought, what if he'd told him something he shouldn't? He struggled to remember what they had talked of. Harmless things, surely? Home and family and things from the past, things far beyond even an officer's reach. He hadn't spoken of his mates here. Had he?

The officer's question went only half heard and it was a moment before it even registered in Paol's mind that the man had spoken. He looked up, startled. "Sir?"

Saint-Hilaire studied Paol thoughtfully. His uniform changed so many things. From being near friends and sharing a quiet moment, they had again become strangers.

While Paol may have worried about saying something that he oughtn't, Saint-Hilaire felt the loss of that privacy that he was able to share, if only for a few moments.

"I ..am not your officer, Kerjean." It did not change much. Even as an officer of the 17th he was still a sous-lieutenant. An officer.

"Can you walk with me,.. so that I may speak further?" Though he would not have cared for another ear to hear, somehow he felt that he wished for that privacy now, even if enforced by such a request. He motioned in the direction that he meant to walk and though his gait was awkward and slow, he seemed eager enough.

"Yes, sir."

Crouching, he touched Balincourt lightly on the shoulder, but the younger soldier did not stir and Paol straightened up. An officer's request was as binding as a command and so he came to heel as he had been ordered.

Falling into step beside the sous-lieutenant, he waited for him to speak.

Saint-Hilaire sighed. It was expected that a soldat would act in the manner that Kerjean did. It was correct and proper that he walked in step because a request was as much an order. That he answered with sir, was also normal. An officer would not be addressed in an other way.

"...Paol.." He hesitated. "Kerjean." He corrected himself for the benefit and respect shown to the other man. "..I apologise."

He allowed the silence to drag on, his eyes cast ahead, his gait still awkward, with a limp. "I have mislead you into believing that I was a mere soldier.. though I have thought I had good reason, it was not fair towards you." He had not turned his head to look at the man at his side.

He knew that Paol followed because he heard his footsteps, but felt somewhat tense, uncomfortable even, because it reminded him that it was the side on which he saw nothing and would never see anything.

"You don't need to do this, sir," he protested weakly. He was so far out of his depth here, he felt he could easily drown before touching bottom.

"I do." Saint-Hilaire stopped. He felt that they've come far enough and that they were now alone - and he was quite as exhausted as before, crossing the distance between the two camps. His leg ached and so did his back and he cursed himself for persisting with this and with the wearing of his coat which did little to make anything comfortable.

"I have mislead you... though I admit, I am glad that I did, so that we could talk... normally. As equals without this.."He waved his hand. "Without all that you are doing just now. Awkward, short spoken, with enough sirs to fill an officer's mess." he turned around, half way and then more so that he could have Paol on the seeing side.

"You have permission to speak freely. So please, do."

Paol's flush deepened under the perceived criticism and he kept his gaze riveted to the ground, at least until the officer bade him speak. He looked up then, staring at the other man with confusion that bordered on panic. "What do you want me to say, sir?"

"Anything that you feel to say...Kerjean. I know I cannot ask you to act the way you did before this became common knowledge." He motioned towards his uniform. "...But please, at least try. I am not your direct superior...You are of the 86th and I am of the 17th.. so that.. at the very least..." He grew quiet and observed the man.

"...And do please... calm down. I am not here to seek trouble with you, or of you."

"I don't understand, sir. You said you wanted to speak to me."

"With you, not to you. Kerjean." Saint-Hilaire corrected the man's wording. "It is..." It was frustrating. Suddenly it felt as if a wall had been built between the two and he was raised metres above the other man and could not communicate at all with him.

"..Will you not speak with me unless ordered from today on?"

To? With? What difference did it make? Saint-Hilaire had feigned contrition at having deceived him, then stated that he was glad for having done so. Now he seemed to want to play at being a soldat again, and yet he wore his officer's jacket. It was a strange game and Paol knew none of the rules.

"Sir," he began carefully, "What is it that you want?"

"I would like, if you would agree to it." He paused again,:" And that does mean it is not an order, but something of your free will.. that we would be able to converse as we had before. " He could not explain exactly how, but he hoped that Kerjean would know or guess correctly on his own.

It was hard to juggle being an officer - which he was proud of - and speaking with a man who was not comfortable speaking with officers.

"Like before?" Paol looked at the other man as though, for a moment, he thought he must be joking. He had come to expect such arrogance from those in authority, but it nonetheless surprised him here. "You mean wi' you trickin' me into natterin' on, tellin' you things you had no right knowin'? Sir," he added hastily, flushing crimson. "Sorry, sir."

Christ God, but he was an idiot. Where in hell had that come from? He bent his eyes on the ground once more, determined not to louse things up anymore than he already had.

"...I am sorry. Anything you have told me then, and anything you might speak of now, shall remain in the private spheres, as.. a conversation among friends..." Saint-Hilaire feared using the word, for it might be a fool's idea. He knew he could not have done anything different, but felt guilty that he had mislead this man. At the very least, he did speak his mind, just as he had requested.

"...Do not apologise.." He shook his head. It felt as if the only reason Kerjean said sorry was, because of Saint-Hilaire being an officer. It was not that he really meant it, in the officer's opinion.

"I have been the one who wronged...and I am sorry." So awkward. It did not help he had some of the pain dulling liquid affecting him, nor did it help that he was tired and distracted by that amount of pain which was not completely gone.

"Your friend.. back at the wagon, will he need assistance soon?"

"Yes, sir." It was not strictly true, but it promised a means of escape and at the moment that was all that mattered.

"... Right." Saint-Hilaire felt disappointed. He had expected this to happen really, but still. "..well,... I guess you should go help him then..." With a greater, sad sigh he added."...Dismissed..." What else could he do? Paol Kerjean was a completely different person when an officer's coat was seen and seemed unwilling to act differently.

"...And one more thing, Kerjean." Saint-Hilaire said as an afterthought. "Good luck." He turned. He could either attempt to remain here or attempt another walk back, leaving a note for the surgeon, from where he was to take the money for his treatment.

"...and give this to the young one. Francois, I believe." He held a note to the man.

He took the paper without looking up. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Then, after an awkward pause, "Will that be all, sir?"

"For now, yes. You are welcome to come to our camp sometime." He paused. "..When I am better settled I will have a token of gratitude for you." He glanced the other way, standing shakily.

"So, I do ask you to come, when it will be convenient for you, of course." He nodded lightly.

Half formed protests died on his lips. There was no will behind them. There was no point. "Sir," he acknowledged, his tone and expression carefully neutral, and turned to go.

Saint-Hilaire had considered not making the long way back the same day. It had tired him enough to do it in one direction. He saw however that he had nothing left in the 86th. The superior officers had never learned of him, the subordinate would quite possibly have reacted in a similarly hostile manner to Kerjean. He was too tired for another conversation of the likes of the present.

While being exhausted he had decided to return rather than remain. It was better so. His own men were different to that of the line. For one, they thought further than their orders and while they obeyed them, they were chosen for their wit, skill and experience, not their ability of following, of being as sheep. They needed officers as shepherds, never coming anywhere closer.

In truth he hated to think so, but what else could he do when facts supported the belief? He did not wait for Kerjean to go far, but walked, though with a heavy limp, back towards his camp. He felt faint, but he persisted. The pain increased, yet he still walked with the only thought in his mind, of returning to his 17th and to his tent and 'bed'.