Feels Like Home
He had first heard about the war when his father told him he was enlisted.
Staring at the green uniform with a bland expression, Allen Townsend reached out with hands that twitched to run his fingertips over the jacket’s coarse material. A silk-lined hat sat on his desk, along with a belt and a shining silver sword he had only ever held in practice and play battles against his younger brother.
He wanted to be a doctor; now he was a soldier.
“The Cavalry is part of the main offense in England’s military.” The voice was harsh, deep and crisp, rolling over an upper-class tongue and allowing the words to filter through the air like London’s finest smog. Allen did not turn around to face his younger brother, who had gotten out of enlistment because of schooling. Allen wondered why he could not have used the same excuse - he was not a soldier, he hated seeing even the sickest of animals pass in their sleep.
And now he had to cut down living, breathing, healthy human beings?
“I k-know,” he said softly, his voice a whisper compared to Richard’s strong tenor. He turned away from his uniform, hand dropping in the midst of its texture exploration, and instead turned to the papers that held his orders. “I’ll h-have to b-b-buy a horse…”
“Father’s out looking right now; he’ll be sure to find a beast that can handle your gentle nature.” Richard sat himself imperiously on Allen’s bed then, leaning back on his hands and staring at him blankly with his bright grey eyes. Allen turned his darker grey gaze to look upon his brother, taking in the unique bone structure of his face (an inheritance from their mother’s side of the family) to his dark curls that made him appear much younger than he was.
He thought for a moment that he might write to his brother, but then pushed the thought away; Richard was not one for such sentimentalities.
“You’ll be back soon enough, I’m sure. Father says war never lasts very long.”
It sounded like such a flippant thing to say, but Allen had grown up around Richard Townsend and he knew his concerned voice when he heard it. Smiling, he reached out and squeezed his younger brother’s shoulder, nodding once barely.
“Yes, of c-course.”
Richard gave him a smile-that-wasn’t and left him without another word.
~+~
He found riding his horse to be a stress relief.
Going through practice runs on his chestnut brown thoroughbred, whom he had been told was named Phillip, Allen could forget that he was practicing for war. He would ride through the expansive field of the training compound, pushing Phillip further and further to reach the goal - a ring hanging from a pole on a ribbon - faster and faster each day.
Soon enough, he was the fastest horse of the company, and Allen felt a little bit of pride for the both of them because of that fact.
And then they were shipped over to the mainland and into war.
They walked through endless forests, stopping to allow the horses to rest and feed themselves every few hours and catching a bit of half-hearted sleep themselves. Allen stayed with Phillip, rubbing him down and taking good care of him so as to distract his wandering thoughts. Far off in the distance, echoing off of hills and mountains alike, the company could hear gunfire. Sometimes it was the familiar popping of Allied guns; other times it was the off-beat tempo of enemy weaponry.
All-in-all it was unpleasant.
And then one day they had come across their first battle. Being told to quickly mount their horses, Allen hoisted himself onto Phillip’s back, drew his sword when ordered to, and charged when their commanding officer screamed for it.
It had been terrifying, exhilarating, and Allen never wanted to experience battle ever again. He had cleaned his sword three times before deeming it clean enough, cared for Phillip much too slowly for his training, and fell asleep in the stable, plagued by nightmares and soothed by the smell of horses.
He fought three more battles before they met the machine guns of the enemy.
Allen lost Phillip in the skirmish, and he had run, cutting down anyone who came across his path and diving into the woods for his escape. It was just short of terrifying in the never-ending maze of branches, leaves, and uneven ground; the only thing that scared him more had been the guns and the faceless enemy firing at him, the sounds of his horse’s screams, and the sight of his commanding officer dropping with a hole in his throat the size of his fist.
The woods and all its shadowed mysterious was nothing compared to that.
He slept wherever he could and rarely, keeping his sword out and ignoring his pistol for when he thought he would really need it. Every sound made him twitch, and after two weeks Allen lost count of the days and the time, judging time by the position of the sun and by his ever-increasing hunger. He fed off of berries and what he could eat raw; he didn’t dare make a campfire and show potential enemies where he was.
He was found when he had closed his eyes for a quick rest.
~+~
“What’s this, then?”
Twitching, Allen woke up to the sound of unfamiliar voices. He was groggy and exhausted, feeling slower than he had when he had pressed his face into the warm neck of a thoroughbred with a chestnut coat, and so it took him a few minutes to realize that he should have been alone and he was very much not.
Rolling away from the tree he had taken shelter under, he brandished his sword and stared at the three men in front of him unsurely. One was a young man whose hat tilted forward, too big for his head, and dark, curly hair that touched the tips of his ears; the man who stood beside him was a little bit older, much taller, with dark blue eyes that glared down at Allen suspiciously, his hands resting on his firearm as if prepared to shoot the once-Cavalry officer.
It was the third man who stepped forward, catching his attention.
He was taller than the man with the hat, yet shorter than the soldier with the gun. Holding a pistol in one hand and a rifle slung on a strap onto his back, he was stocky and freckled and had the brightest hazel-green eyes Allen had ever seen. They were almost completely green except for flecks of hazel and a ring of it around his pupils, as if it refused to allow the green to have the spotlight.
He also had a very easy smile that promised either companionship or a bullet to the brain.
“’e don’ look like a Fritz,” the shortest of the three spoke up, dark eyes moving from Allen to look at his companion who stepped forward. He sounded like he was from England, but definitely not upper class; his accent was practically Geordie. Perhaps more mumbled than a Geordie.
“He’s not German, Aiden, y’can calm down,” the soldier with the eyes spoke up, and his accent was so fully American that Allen was momentarily confused. “Look at what’s left of his uniform - he’s English Cavalry.”
“He must have been part of that attack a couple of weeks ago that ended badly.”
That was the tall one, his voice deep and promising threats should Allen prove to be anything other than an ally. Green-eyes looked back at him, frowning momentarily as if disapproving of his tone, before turning back to Allen.
“What’s your name, sir?”
Looking away from the other soldiers who continued to stare at him uneasily, Allen set his gaze on freckles and hazel-green eyes.
“A-Allen…C-Captain Allen Townsend.”
Smiling, the American offered him a hand; after a moment, Allen took it, stumbling when he was dragged onto his feet and almost falling into the soldier’s chest.
“My name’s Zebediah Walker. Let’s get you back with friends, huh?”
~+~
They were apparently British infantry, even the American.
When they had arrived at the camp, Allen had immediately been taken to the commanding officer’s tent and asked to tell him what had happened to him since his escape from the fabulous failure that had been his last battle. Allen told it as best as he could, struggling to remember a few things such as the date and length of time he was missing, before he was handed over to the infirmary and given a thorough check-up. Outside of some weight loss and a few minor scrapes that had gotten a bit infected, he was fine - however, it was suggested that he stay away from any conflict until he was in perfect health.
He spent the majority of his time with the commanding officer, a man who called himself Andrew Rodgers. He seemed to know what he was doing, creating battle strategies and back-up plans and back-up plans to his back-up plans. He drank scotch more than water, only ate if the food was hot and in front of him, and sometimes completely forgot about Allen’s presence unless he needed a quick opinion on something.
During the times Rodgers forgot about his existence, Allen wrote a letter to his family to tell them he was alright and explored the camp.
The camp was pretty basic. It even had quickly-made stalls for horses, though the magnificent creatures were used more as beasts of labour than assistance to soldiers in the field. When he had asked about that, one of the soldiers given stable duty had told him that the machine guns were too much for the creatures, and therefore useless in the battle. They were better used to cart around the injured and the artillery; apparently the Germans had begun to use them to carry their larger guns, dragging them uphill and using them until they died.
Then again, the English did very similar.
Allen took to spending his time around the horses at night, sitting on the man-made stalls and talking to the gentle creatures because he had no one else to talk to. The stable boys didn’t seem to mind, especially when he began to take care of the horses along with them, making sure they were well-groomed and in good condition for whenever they were needed.
He had seen the soldiers who had found him only a few times, but during those times he had learned their names.
The short one with the Geordie-like accent was Aiden Wolfe, a man from the bellies of England’s north. Good-humoured and bad-tempered, he was clumsier than anything but had a good shot, and that was the only reason he was allowed to carry a gun as he did. Constantly with him was Tegan Hobbes, who came from London itself and was terribly protective of Aiden in a manner that reminded Allen of a loyal hunting dog to its master.
When he had spotted them behind one of the tents on his way to the horses, however, he had learned that the loyalty ran deeper than that. He never brought it up, though; Tegan still unnerved him.
The soldier whose name he had already known, Zebediah Walker, was a bit of a mystery. Hailing from Michigan in the United States of America, he had moved to England with his mother when he was still a lad and lived in the dirty corners of London. For the longest time he had worked in a factory, while his mother had worked as a seamstress, and they made due that way. When the war came around, Zebediah had dropped his job soon as he could and joined the military.
Zebediah never spoke of his mother, however, and whenever anyone asked about why they had moved from Michigan, Zebediah would go very quiet before he left whatever circle of friends and comrades he had been talking to, disappearing into some corner of the camp.
It worried Allen, but seeing as the only contact he ever had with Zebediah outside of that first day was the American nodding to him politely, he tried not to concern himself too much.
This was pretty much futile. But he tried.
~+~
“I’ve received orders for you, Captain.”
Allen looked up from the book he had acquired from one of the soldiers, slipping off of the stall that held Ares - a pretty black Baroque that liked to rest his head on Allen’s shoulder and snuffle at him whenever Allen came by, looking for the apples the ex-Cavalry officer usually carried with him.
Rodgers stood in front of him, holding an envelope that had already been opened and not even looking apologetic about it. Deciding to refrain from comment, the officer took hold of the envelope and slipped out a sheet of paper, reading over it quickly and frowning.
“I-I’m to stay here?”
“It’s been decided, since you’re the best one out of any of us here with horses that you’ll take care of the beasties and make sure they don’t drop dead on us too early. You won’t have to fight unless the bastards come to us - but that’s not really all that likely, so think of this as a bit of a holiday, Townsend. You’ll also probably be called on for your input in battle tactics, since you’re still an officer and not just a soldier.”
Allen thought he could sense a bit of condescension in the other man’s voice, but he decided not to comment on it. Nodding and folding the orders into his pocket, he watched as Rodgers turned on his heel and marched away. He flinched when someone suddenly appeared by his side.
“So you’ll be with us for a while, huh?”
Blinking at the familiar voice, Allen turned to see Zebediah standing next to him, back to the horses and shoulders stiffer than he had ever seen them. He had his rifle strapped to his back, like usual, and what looked to be Aiden’s hat tilting back on his head. He wondered briefly if he had stolen it or won it in a card game.
“I-It would appear so, yes,” Allen said, turning away from him before realizing what Zebediah had just said. Raising an eyebrow, the officer turned back to the infantry soldier and stared at him with an expression that spoke of being unimpressed. “Eavesdropping, W-Walker?”
Zebediah gave him a shit-eating grin that told him he wasn’t even sorry.
~+~
Allen learned rather quickly that Zebediah was terrified of horses.
He realized this when he saw that Zebediah usually avoided the stables as much as he could. Even when the camp eventually moved, as they had to go closer to the actual battlefield and sticking around the edges wasn’t cutting it anymore, Zebediah chose to walk instead of climbing into the cart pulled by Ares and Sophia, a white beauty with grey spots and a trickster’s personality.
No one else seemed to realize it, making Allen wonder briefly how he was able to and not Zebediah’s constant comrades. The answer that he came up with made his stomach twist uncomfortably, however, and so he stopped thinking about the reasons as to how, and focused more on the why.
Camp set up for the night, the distant sounds of gunfire and canon fire in the distance, Allen left the horses and went to where the mess had been unofficially set up, grabbing a bowl of what the cook that night called stew and searching for Zebediah’s familiar face. He usually sat with Zebediah or Aiden when he wasn’t made to sit with Rodgers and talk battle strategies; though he was good at battle strategies, he didn’t like thinking about the fact that he was sending out people he considered good friends by now into dangerous situations while he stayed behind.
It didn’t sit well in his stomach.
He spotted Zebediah at the far edge of the mess area, poking at his stew with an expression that told Allen that his meal would be less-than-savoury that night. Then again, he hadn’t had a decent meal since before he’d been shipped off to the mainland.
“M-mind if I join you?”
“Huh?” Zebediah looked up from trying to decipher what meat was used for his stew, blinking up at Allen before smiling and offering him a seat. “Go right ahead, Cap.”
Allen smiled, somehow appreciating Zebediah’s lack of proper respect towards his rank in the military. It made him feel a little closer to someone outside of the horses, and that was a pleasant feeling. “I-is the stew s-s-safe to eat?”
“Not at all, which means you might want to plug your nose and chase it down with whiskey.”
Allen snorted, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I h-have no whiskey,” he said softly, stabbing at a carrot and chewing on it. It wasn’t so bad, but perhaps Allen was just thankful to have warm food. He still clearly remembered his foraging in the forest when he had been lost; cold berries and mushrooms that he wasn’t sure were good for him. Anything was better than that.
“…W-Walker.” He waited until Zebediah was looking at him again, working on a piece of meat after deciding it’d probably be best to not waste it. “…H-how long have I been h-h-here?”
“Well, Cap, you told me you were turning forty your next birthday…”
“Walker.”
Zebediah smiled thinly, shrugging a shoulder and looking back at his meal. “About a year now. Doesn’t feel like it, does it? Feels like the war should’ve been over ages ago…thought this was just gonna be a quick one.”
Allen frowned down at his meal, feeling what he had eaten turn to lead in his stomach, before forcing himself to finish. No good wasting food, good or bad. “Mm.”
They fell silent after that, eating their respective dinners and allowing the conversations of other soldiers to fill the silence. Allen put aside his empty plate, folding his hands together and staring at them as they shook more than he had ever seen them shake before. He wondered when the shaking had started.
“W-why are you afraid of horses?”
Zebediah looked at him blankly, and Allen wondered when he had told his mouth that he wanted to ask that question. After a moment, Zebediah snorted and shrugged, fiddling with his tin cup and looking at it as if expecting something to come crawling out of it.
“When I was a kid, livin’ on a farm outside of this town called Westfield - little place in Michigan, can’t even find it on the map - I went to go visit the stables down the road at the neighbouring farmhouse. This cranky old horse didn’t like me peeking in and kicked at me. Clipped my shoulder; I couldn’t move it right for days. Haven’t been comfortable ‘round them since.”
He sensed that there was probably a lie in there, because Zebediah wasn’t one to just share information with anyone, but Allen didn’t push it. After all, he didn’t know Zebediah all that well.
“Cap.”
Allen shook himself out of his thoughts, looking at Zebediah with a curious tilt to his head as the soldier seemed to struggle with something. After a few minutes of Zebediah fiddling with his cup, staring at it and not the officer in front of him, Allen cleared his throat pointedly and raised his eyebrows when Zebediah looked at him.
“…Did you have friends in your company?”
Immediately Allen thought back to Thomas Grey, who had bragged that his steed could outrun any German’s guns; to Wesley Blake, who had followed Thomas like a lost puppy; to Brenton Faywell, who was obviously too young to be among their ranks and yet there he was, excited as could be that he could help King and Country.
Smiling thinly, Allen looked up at the stars and shook his head.
“No.”
~+~
One night, while in the middle of grooming a new stallion they had acquired from a German camp, Rodgers’ messenger boy and nephew came running up to Allen, panting and pale.
“W-what is it?”
“The horses are needed to pull the ambulance carts; a lot of our men are hurt.”
His thoughts flashed to Aiden and Tegan and Zebediah, all of whom had marched off that morning to go fight another battle, before he nodded and started to move the horses over to the ambulance carts.
~+~
“I’m told you were training to be a doctor, Captain Townsend.”
Looking down at the doctor on the field, he nodded once and tugged at his shaking hands nervously, wishing that they hadn’t begun to shake so badly and still wondering behind their cause. The doctor, a man named Liam Donovan, looked up at him from behind rounded spectacles, before he nodded and stood up, pocketing his glasses and waving for the officer to follow him.
“I’m about three hands short of what I actually need, so I’m going to need you assistance, Captain. Is that alright?”
“Y-yes, of course,” Allen nodded eyes wide. Donovan smiled at him thankfully, before he pushed some bandages into his hands and pointed him to the cot farthest down the tent.
“Start with Walker; he’s got a nasty arm wound that needs tending to. Then just go down the line until you start running out of bandages. Once you’re out, come back for more, and go back to where you left off. You can do this side - I’ll do the other.”
Feeling his stomach squeeze at the knowledge that Zebediah had been hurt, he moved down the line and paused when he saw someone he didn’t recognize.
The man was much taller than Zebediah, with a sharper face and longer limbs. However, when he opened his eyes, the same hazel-green stared up at him, and Allen realized that Zebediah had family in the war with him.
“You’re not the doctor.”
“No, b-but I am a-assisting him,” Allen said mildly, moving to the side the injured arm was on and quietly helping the mysterious Walker sit up. “W-what’s your name?”
“Walker.”
“Y-yes, well, I happen to k-know another man by that name…”
“Oh,” the man’s eyes widened in understanding, before he nodded and winced when Allen lifted his arm. “My name’s Ezekiel; I’m Zeb’s cousin.”
“D-does he know you’re in h-h-here?”
“Yeah - he’s the one who dragged my sorry ass here. Probably pacing outside of the tent or something; was muttering about a promise before I passed out.”
“I’ll be s-sure to tell him you’re f-fine; just a little b-beat up.” Ezekiel smiled at him thankfully, sighing when he could lie back down and close his eyes. Allen finished the bandage job with Ezekiel slowly drifting back to sleep, before he stood up and moved to help the next soldier.
Two hours later, his hands a little bloodier than normal and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, Allen was allowed to leave the medical tent and was met with Zebediah standing in front of it, glaring holes into the tarp as if he could see through it.
“Your c-c-cousin is fine,” Allen stated quietly, watching as Zebediah’s eyes flashed over to him, intent and so green the hazel looked like it was losing its battle. The officer smiled thinly, rolling a stiff shoulder and moving to walk past him to find the river. “H-he just needs his rest.”
He had passed Zebediah without incident and was heading towards where he knew the river to be when Zebediah finally called out for him.
“Captain!” Allen paused, looking back at Zebediah and raising his eyebrows expectantly. Zebediah seemed to collect himself before giving him a weak smile - but the most sincere smile he’d ever seen on the other man’s face.
“Thank you.”
Smiling back, Allen nodded and continued on his way once Zebediah turned away to enter the medical tent.
Somehow, his heart felt lighter.
~+~
Another year passed, and Allen was slowly ‘promoted’ from the glorified stable boy to Donovan’s assistant in the medical tent.
Despite his shaking hands, he knew how to tend to the wounded and make sure they were in as little pain as possible. He would talk to the patients and soothe them from their pained panic; he would talk them down from panic attacks. When those particularly feverish had nightmares, Allen was there with a cool cloth and the right words to say when they woke up screaming, still thinking that they were in the battlefield.
Much had changed about the war since Allen had first entered, most of it being the style of fighting that was happening.
One particular battle stood out to Allen, it being the most recent of the battles and still going strong. The soldiers were calling it ‘the Battle of the Somme’; officers called it the ‘Somme Offensive’.
Allen called it a bloodbath.
Their company had been called from their smaller battles just outside of French territory to assist the British Army and their French allies. They were fighting against German soldiers, as they had taken huge tracks of land from French territory back when they war started and it was only now that they could move forward with the attack.
Their company had been called in a week after the first attack because of the massive loss of soldiers the British suffered the first day.
(Allen didn’t like to think about it.)
~+~
Zebediah and Allen’s relationship had started to change the day after Allen had helped Zeb’s cousin.
Zebediah would purposely search for Allen, sitting with him and talking to him. Sometimes he wouldn’t say anything at all and just stare at his hands - riddled in mystery scars and freckles, his shoulders hunched and his eyes far away. Sometimes he spoke nonsense, making up stories of his childhood and telling Allen about this girl he had accidentally knocked up before he had left for the army.
He told Allen that he had joined the army because he didn’t want to deal with a child just yet, being ‘too young’ and ‘too irresponsible’. Allen thought it probably had something to do with the mother, since Zebediah never mentioned her.
Sometimes Zebediah would tell him the truth. He would speak extra quietly, whispering into his hands as if praying and confessing to things Allen knew he had never told anyone about before. He took it as the highest compliment that the most secretive member of the company decided that Allen was the person to share his secrets with.
It was a month before the Somme happened when things completely twisted on Allen’s head in the best way possible.
Allen had just finished tending to some of the wounded in the tent and was making his way to see to the horses (who he still visited, despite them no longer being his responsibility) when someone had grabbed him by the arm. Dragged into as private a nook in the camp as was possible, Allen looked up to see Zebediah in front of him, gripping onto his wrists and staring at him with a quiet intensity that reminded him a bit of Tegan, except less threatening.
Opening his mouth to ask him what he wanted, Allen had been silenced when Zebediah had leaned forward and kissed him.
It was a bit awkward, to say the least. Chaste and dry and stiff, since Zebediah seemed to be waiting for Allen to hit him over the head and yell at him. Which, really, was just silly. So to prove the silliness, Allen tugged his wrists out of Zebediah’s hold, pressed his fingertips to the younger man’s jaw, and dragged him closer to kiss him properly.
The only way to describe Zebediah’s expression after the fact had been ‘extremely pleased and ridiculously stupid in the most positive of ways’.
They only kissed occasionally, and kept to their usual routine; but now Zebediah sat next to Allen and touched him more, such as elbowing him when he wanted his attention or knocking their knees together when he was feeling particularly at peace. Whenever Zeb left to go shoot at the enemy, leaving Allen behind with Donovan and their patients, Allen would have to force himself to concentrate and only breathed easier when Zebediah came back to the camp safe and sound.
And then they were called in for the Somme.
~+~
It had been a week since Allen had seen Zebediah, and he was beginning to worry.
Soldiers had been coming in slowly to the medical tent, which was now more an actual structure far, far away from the battles. Allen could still hear the canons fire in the distance, and it made him twitchy; it was practically impossible to sleep at night.
Not that Allen slept at night.
It was nearing the middle of the second week when Rodgers came up to Allen and shoved a rifle into his hands.
“S-sir?”
“You know how to shoot one, don’t you?”
Staring at him in confusion, Allen nodded, and Rodgers gave a jerk of what could be called a nod but seemed too forced to be one.
“Good. We need a medic out on the field. The last one got shot in the throat. Normally I would send Donovan, since he has more qualifications than you, but we can’t spare him - so you’ll have to do. Holiday’s over.” Turning, he began marching away before he stopped, still staring at the wall blankly.
“…Sir?”
“Don’t get shot, Townsend,” Rodgers turned to look at him, eyes narrowing faintly. “That would just be a waste.”
Swallowing, Allen nodded.
~+~
To call the field of the Somme the gateway to Hell was probably an understatement, but it was the only way Allen knew how to describe it.
It was barren of natural life, craters the size of horses littering the ground and filled with water and bloated bodies. Crawling through trenches, pressing his back against the muddy walls and helping those soldiers he found still breathing, Allen saw more rats crawl out of old comrades’ mouths and stomachs than he ever wanted to see.
He had a feeling that if he ever got out of this alive, he would have nightmares for the rest of his life.
Wading through the slick fields, he slipped into a crater and into a desperate situation.
“Captain!”
Turning to where he heard the voice, he saw Tegan pressed against the wall, Aiden tucked against his side and breathing laboriously. That, of course, was never a good sign and so Allen immediately moved over to them.
“W-what happened?”
“Bullet to the side,” Tegan said in a rush, peeking his head out over the rim of the crater they were currently taking shelter in, before turning back to Allen. The captain-turned-field-medic nodded, helping Aiden sit up and looking at the bleeding wound in his side. Allen hissed between his teeth, eyebrows furrowing in worry, before turning to Tegan.
“H-he needs to g-g-go back to the infirmary.”
“We’re not allowed to turn back - we’ll be shot,” Tegan said softly, tucking Aiden back against his side. He pressed a kiss to the top of the smaller soldier’s head, seemingly not even caring that Allen was right there; Allen didn’t comment, and Tegan’s shoulders relaxed just a bit. “We’ll stick it out here until someone finds us when collecting the dead.”
Allen pressed his lips together, not thinking it was a good idea, but seeing the reasoning behind it. Why bring a wounded man to an encampment that would simply shoot them for returning, assuming they were running from their post? Not that this field was a post; it was chaos compact into a field where no grass grew.
Rummaging through the pack he had been given before being tossed out into the field, he pressed some gauze into Tegan’s hands, smiling at him thinly. “G-get it wrapped up a-at least; i-it’ll prevent m-m-more damage.”
“…Thank you,” Tegan murmured, wrapping dirty fingers around the gauze and nodding to the officer. Allen moved to climb over the crater and Tegan touched his arm lightly. When Allen looked down at him, Tegan stared at him for a long minute before sighing. “Be careful.”
“…Y-you, too,” Allen murmured. He went to climb up again before pausing, turning back to the two soldiers. “H-have you seen W-W-Walker?”
Giving him a knowing look that would normally cause Allen to flush an embarrassing red - but really, time and place - Tegan shook his head slowly. “Lost him at the beginning of the attack. He’s probably still out there trying to get to the German trenches.”
“R-right.”
~+~
When Allen saw his first gas victim, he threw up into a crater and then dry-heaved until it hurt.
The man laid face-up with his face bubbled and destroyed beyond recognition. He had boils and welts along his neck and on his hands where the gas had hit his flesh. He barely looked human.
It was with that realization that Allen began to fear the worst.
~+~
Allen was shot in the leg November 16, 1916. On the 17th, he was dragged back to camp where he was tended to by Donovan and visited by Tegan to hear the news that Aiden hadn’t made it.
On the 18th, the battle ended and the Allies won, though Allen didn’t feel like celebrating. Any and all soldiers were brought back from the field, dead or alive. When Donovan was leaving his bedside to tend to the newly wounded, Allen grabbed his sleeve and begged him to look for Zebediah Walker. Donovan didn’t even give him a knowing look; he merely nodded and patted Allen’s hand before leaving.
Three weeks later, Allen walked with a limp; two days later, Rodgers approached him and told him he was going home because he was officially considered an invalid - a limper was no use to the front. Another three days after that, Donovan came up to Allen and told him that there had been no signs of Zebediah Walker amongst the living.
A week later, Allen was sent home.
~+~
He had first heard about the ending of the war when his brother came in and told him flatly that someone finally decided to end the damn thing like a human instead of like an animal.
He hadn’t truly reacted, merely giving Richard a nod and an empty smile before turning back to his textbook.
Allen had gone back to medical school, the medals he had somehow won sitting in a box wrapped in a scarf in his trunk and underneath his medical school books, hopefully to be forgotten until the end of his days.
A few days after Richard’s announcement, Allen received a letter from Tegan Hobbes telling him the same thing. Tegan and Allen had kept in touch after Allen had been sent home, as Tegan was the only friend Allen had left from over there and Allen was the only one who knew about Aiden. It was a companionship born from misery and loneliness, and neither man seemed to mind much. Allen invited Tegan to come to his home once he arrived in England and returned to his studies.
On New Year’s Eve, Robert Townsend died suddenly from an illness no one had realized plagued him, and Allen inherited everything. Richard finished medical school and was running his own practice, making an impact and doing well.
After Allen’s studies were completed he started a practice in his home, which was best for his leg and for his personality, as he was prone to being a recluse more than a social butterfly.
Tegan only visited once every few months, which was just fine with Allen. The man was still as quiet as he had ever been, threatening at first glance but gentle once you got to know him. Whenever the two veterans got together they would avoid talk of battles and of lost loved ones and instead talk about current events; politics, the monarchy, the way in which the world was changing, the state of the economy.
It was peaceful, and it was a shallow existence.
But it was life, and Allen told himself he was okay with that.
~+~
On his 44th birthday, Allen Townsend was told he had a visitor.
The message came to him from his secretary who had just been about to leave for the night, seeing as Allen worked even on special events like the date of his birth.
Wondering who could be coming by when the clinic was closed, Allen thanked his secretary (a bright young woman called Rachel who knew what was happening in all the houses on the street without even having to move from behind her desk. Sometimes Allen wondered if she were a fortune reader or a gypsy; then he would remember that she was born in Devon on a farm and call himself foolish for the thought) and asked her if she would be so kind as to send his guest to the tearoom. With a smile and a quick little salute (Rachel liked to remind him of his soldier days, because she thought it was thrilling), she went off to do as he was bid, and Allen made his way to the tearoom to greet his guest.
He sat in his armchair slowly, resting his leg and rubbing it idly. Despite healing mostly fine, it still ached - and since it was threatening rain that day, it ached more than usual; though it was useful if he ever wanted to know if he would need an umbrella stepping out.
The door to the tearoom opened, then, and Allen sighed softly, moving to stand up.
“Don’t be gettin’ up on my account, Cap.”
The voice made him freeze, grey eyes widening before Allen was suddenly lurching to his feet and twisting around to make sure he wasn’t absolutely delusional.
Standing at the doorway, looking older and more scarred and more freckled than he had ever seen him, was Zebediah Walker. His hair was a bit too long, a thin white line ran from the corner of his eye to his jaw, and his right arm held stiff against his side, but it was him.
There was no denying it was him.
“H-how - what - w-why -?”
“Who knew I could get you so flustered, Cap?” Zeb grinned, before pausing. “Or should I call ya ‘doc’, now? When did you become an honest-to-goodness doctor, anyway? I’m always the last to know -”
He was cut off by Allen suddenly being there, arms wrapped tight around his chest and face buried into his neck. He still smelt the same, except cleaner, and he could feel the scrap of stubble against his temple; really, at that point, he didn’t care. Zebediah was alive and breathing and in his tearoom and he could not get past that point in his head.
After a moment, Zebediah wrapped his arms around Allen carefully, squeezing him closer and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“I missed you, too.”