13th June, afternoon - Guards' camp

[After Prisoners Return]

Jenny had not yet seen Woodmarsh, but that was no great loss at all. She was more looking forward to a reunion with his tent and his cot, both happily empty when she found them. With a sigh, she dropped onto the cot, not even bothering to undress. She would do that in a moment, get rid of her stays, but for now, she just needed to rest. Just for a minute. Maybe under the blanket. A bed, a real bed. She smiled deliciously and closed her eyes, quickly falling asleep.

Christian hesitated on the other side of the tent flap. He could imagine this going several different ways, none of them good. But there was nothing for it. "Lt Woodmarsh, sir?" he called.

Jenny sat up abruptly. Where on earth was this? What time, what day, what camp was it? Someone had said something, asked a question. In English, thankfully. "What?" she asked vaguely.

"Jenny?" Too late once again he amended, "I mean, Miss Ross?"

She smiled, more fully awake now. "Mike," she said amiably, sliding out of the cot. "Come in. What did the surgeon say? Have you seen Woodmarsh yet? Sit down." She sat on the edge of the cot and reached out for the lieutenant's folding chair, pulling it close.

Christian stepped awkwardly into the tent, his face brightening as he caught sight of Jenny, but he made no move toward the chair. "Surgeon reckons I'll mend. Could've told him that meself," he added with a grin, "Without all the pokin' an' proddin' an' carryin' on."

"Come on." She reached out with both hands to take his and pulled him toward the chair. "What about the lieutenant? He hasn't replaced us, has he?"

"Don't see how he could replace you, lass. Me, on the other hand..." he gave her a weary smile, "No, I ain't seen him yet. Thought I might find him here." He didn't dare sit down. He'd never get back up. He didn't even need a chair: a pile of rocks would have looked as good as a feather bed to him at that moment.

Jenny eyed him skeptically. He looked ready to keel over, again, like when he had tripped down that last hill. "Michael Christian, sit down before you fall over. This is my tent, practically, and you must do as I say. Did the surgeon look at your head? And that nasty gash on your face? You're making me tired standing up like that."

"This ain't no surgeon's wagon, Jenny" he said gently, recalling the morning after the escape, "I only wish it was."

Jenny either did not understand his meaning or chose not to acknowledge it. "That's no reason for them to ignore a broken head. I don't think Woodmarsh has replaced either of us," she added, changing the subject. "It looks like he's been fending for himself. This tent is a mess. I'm amazed he has a tent at all. I wonder who helped him pitch it." She gave Christian a grin. And then she pushed herself off of the cot. If Christian insisted on standing, then she would stand as well.

"I didn't mean..." he trailed off. Why should she remember? They'd both fallen asleep in a bleeding wagon. Why should that matter? And why the hell should he care if it did or not? He tried to smile, "Some poor sod from the company, I expect. No, don't get up. I should be goin' anyway. Oughta..." What? He hadn't any idea what he should be doing at the moment and all he really wanted to do was curl up somewhere and sleep. He took a step back toward the flap of the tent. "...go," he finished lamely.

Jenny gave him a sleepy smile that was difficult to read. Perhaps it was nothing more than fatigue. "All right. Don't let me keep you."

What had he expected? He said he was going, so he should just bloody go. "Goodbye, Jenny."

She sat down on the bed and tucked her legs under the blanket. "Tell Woodmarsh I'm here when you see him. I'm going to sleep till then." She curled up on her side and closed her tired eyes.

Yes, miss, he thought bitterly, letting the tent flap drop closed behind him. He was being childish. He knew that. What he didn't know was what in God's name he should do. Or say. Not that any of it mattered, because things had to go back to the way they were, so why in hell was he still standing there?

He turned, suddenly of half a mind to burst back into the tent and blurt out... something, but he quickly thought better of it. He started to walk, wanting to get away before he could do something daft.

Concentrating on his hurry and his armload of blankets, Private Fisher nearly collided with him. "Christian!" he exclaimed, looking surprised but not happily so.

"Fisher." There was an awkward pause. Everything he would typically have said seemed absurd given the circumstances. "You, ah...you ain't seen Lieutenant Woodmarsh, have you?"

Fisher regained his composure. "No, not since his dinner, but I'm heading for his tent, this way. I heard some of you lot was back. What happened to your face?"

"Bloody Frog cavalry," he answered, not bothering to elaborate. "I just come from from the tent. He ain't there."

"Dunno then. I'm just goin' to make up the bed. You... I suppose you'll be sent to the surgeon, eh?" There was a tinge of uneasy hope in his voice.

Make up the bed? Hell. "You his new batman, then?" he asked stiffly, ignoring the last question.

"Oh, no no no no," Fisher quickly answered, shaking his head. He looked rather nervous now. "No, I was just fillin' in a bit while you was gone, helpin' out like." He attempted a grin. "These officers. Can't leave 'em to fend for 'emselves, eh?"

Christian relaxed. "No," he laughed, "'Specially not him."

Fisher joined in the laughter, starting to relax as well. "And we all thought you was done for the rest of the war. Shoulda seen him. 'Where's my dinner? Where's my tent? Where's my baggage?' And not just the baggage stored in the bags, if you know what I mean." He winked. "That pretty piece of his, Miss Ross, is she back too? Or did the French keep her for a prize? I know I would!"