12th July, evening; The washing

"Tsk, you are picking up bad habits from your little brothers," she scolded. Or Gilles, she was about to suggest, when her ears caught the soft tread of boots and peering into the darkness past Jérémie she thought she could make out a familiar figure approaching.

"Paol?"

That was no doubt true, but Jérémie didn't mind the pinprick marks Suie made. Not too much, anyway. "So I should not encourage him." He grinned as he rubbed at the kitten's face with his thumb, provoking the little beast to bite at the offending digit.

His amusement withered and died almost instantly, however, at Mathilde's querying greeting. The increasing sense of ease he'd been enjoying went as well. This was... perfect.

Was it her imagination or did the shadow seem to hesitate? Could she have been wrong? But no, it was definitely moving now and a moment later a familiar voice greeted, "Hullo, little one. Rosy."

"Paol! Jérémie has been teaching me about mending shoes," she reported happily, but a glance at Blanchard brought a touch of uncertainty to her face. Something was wrong.

"Paol." The greeting had to be returned, though Jérémie's tone hinted at neutral reserve. He was not sure what to make of the other soldier's presence here.

He breathed out a quiet sigh and attempted a smile, without success. At least mending shoes was a safe subject. "Aye. She has a good eye for it, too."

Mathilde ducked her head, unable to contain a shy smile at the praise.

"I bet she does." The answering smile in Paol's voice sounded genuine enough, but there was none of the usual easiness about him. "Didn't mean to interrupt, I only...well, her--your mother was getting to wondrin', is all."

"Oh!" Mathilde clapped a hand to her mouth. She'd entirely lost track of time.

Heat built in his face at that. It had never occurred to him that Mathilde might be expected back anywhere. Idiot.

"Sorry," Jérémie said, turning his gaze down at the dark, purring pile of kitten on his lap. "I didn't mean to keep you away from your Maman."

Mathilde crossed her arms, a somewhat less effective gesture from a sitting position. "I was the one keeping you, I think. Here, let me finish your washing and we can go back."

"I'll see you back there, then."

What? "You're going?" she looked up at Paol. "It will only take a minute."

Suie protested the abrupt cessation of ear-scratching by swatting at Jérémie's hand, but for the moment, the kitten was ignored. "I can't... are you sure?"

"Of course!" she said brightly, scrambling to her feet. "Is it just that bit over there or do you have more?"

"It's... just that." It was an understatement that Jérémie was surprised by both the offer and subsequent enthusiasm. To him, it was only a waistcoat needing washing. But maybe that was the point?

Despite himself, he glanced up at Paol in helpless bewilderment. Perhaps he knew better what was happening?

The question in Blanchard's glance surprised him and, somewhat uncertainly he sank down onto the sand, a fleeting smile crossing his face as Mathilde went scurrying about her work. "She just wants to help," he said, keeping his voice low. He could, he realized, have been speaking for himself as much as Mathilde and was grateful for the darkness to hide the sudden flush which sprang to his cheeks.

Obviously it was best to accept it, though Jérémie was not convinced that this wasn't actually a cleverly-arranged ambush, of sorts. But maybe he was just being paranoid.

"Aye," he said and shrugged slightly. He was certainly in no position to argue against the desire to help. After a moment's hesitation, he lifted Suie from his lap - enduring the kitten's attempt to stay put by clinging to his trousers - and set the feline down onto the sand. If nothing else, he could let the kitten share its affection.

"Hullo, trouble," he said softly, reaching out to scratch the little creature under its chin. It was a welcome distraction, even if it was difficult to entirely ignore the silence with slipped between them.

Mathilde, however, was as good as her word and before long she returned with the laundered waistcoat. "Ready?"

That hadn't taken long, though she was obviously much better at the work than he was. Now he was faced with a new problem. They would no doubt expect him to go back with them, when he had no intention of doing so.

"Thank you," Jérémie said, as he fished out his last coins from his trouser pocket. This time at least he was determined to pay for the service. "Don't forget your fee." He meant it lightly, but he wasn't sure if it would be taken that way.

"Too late," she quipped, dropping the damp bundle of cloth into his lap and retreating.

"But - " He could only stare in helpless confusion. What was so wrong with accepting payment for this?

"Come on," she said, a smile coloring her voice as she started to back away.

"No," he said before he could stop himself. Even though refusing was the only thing he felt he could reasonably do. His face flushed hot again and he sighed. Damn it. "I mean... I can't. It's not... there's... no. I'm sorry."

"What? What do you mean you can't? What's wrong?"

How could he even explain it?

"I think... it's better that I don't. For a while at least." Until things settled. Though if he knew anything about Bright, at least, that was unlikely to happen. Damned English bastard. And then there was still Quentin, for all he was supposed to have been dealt with.

"Better? What are you--"

"C'mon, little one," Paol, who was already on his feet, said quietly, taking her arm, but she shoved him away.

"I'm not a child! And you can stop treating me like one. Both of you," she added rounding on Blanchard. "Like I'm some silly little girl who can't see what's right in front of her face!" For a moment it looked as though she would say more, then she spun on her heel and stormed into the darkness.

He'd deserved that. That and all the rest, really. It was just a damned shame that he was not the only one hurt by it.

Jérémie glanced up at Paol, aware that he ought to say something, but no words would come. Maybe it was just as well. He looked away again and swallowed past the lump in his throat.

It was a long moment before he managed a quiet, "You ought to take Suie with you, I think." It was the only thing he felt able to say.

Paol flopped back onto the sand. "Don't be daft."

Don't be daft. Right. It was a little late for that. But why was Paol staying?

"Shouldn't you - " Oh what was the point? It seemed like every time he tried, it only made things worse. "Never mind."

He knew better than to ask what. The problem was not what not to say, though -- he was reasonably sure he could figure that out -- but what to say. All the safe topics seemed entirely pointless. And he was growing tired of pretending nothing was wrong.

Crossing his arms over his knees, he settled his chin on them. Maybe he should just keep his mouth shut; he might have prevented a good deal of this mess if he'd done that in the first place.