It's cold, and it's wet, and it smells, and he can barely concentrate on anything but making sure he puts one foot in front of the other and doesn't step off the duckboards and into the mud. The sky above him is almost dazzlingly white, the world around him seeming monochromatic in the weak light of the December sun.

"Looks like you brought the weather with you, eh, Private?" Lieutenant Smythe says, smiling over his shoulder as they walk, "A few days ago half the trenches were flooded because of the rain, you could barely see the pack of the man in front of you."

Nick forces a laugh, trying to hide how absolutely terrified he is. They walk past men covered in mud firing over the edge of the parapet, and men covered in mud crouched against the wall of the trenches, reading letters, or chatting, and a few just sitting, staring into space, lost in their own thoughts.

They stop in front of one of the men, who pushes his letter back into the inside pocket of his tunic, and stands up, saluting Lieutenant Smythe smartly.

"Private Sterling, meet Private Duval. He's our new bod, here to help out when we start the push." Smythe says cheerily. "Keep an eye on him, eh? I'm off to report to the Captain. Cheerio!"

With that, he claps Nick on the back, and strides off down the trench, his greatcoat trailing in the mud as he rounds the corner and disappears from sight. Nick turns back to face Private Sterling, smiling apprehensively.

"Jeffy Sterlin'," he grins, holding out a grubby hand, "British as the pound. They call me Penny, 'cause of me surname."

"Uh... Nicholas Duval." Nick says slowly, shaking Jeffy's hand. "How'd you do?"

"'ow'd you do." Jeffy laughs, dropping his hand before turning and gesturing through the entrance into the dugout that he was sitting by. "After you."

"Aren't... Aren't only officers allowed in there?" Nick asks cautiously, peering through the makeshift door.

Jeffy shrugs.

"Smythe lets us use it. 'S'meant to be 'is, but 'e bunks with other officers a few trenches down." Jeffy tells him, before leading the way inside.

Nick follows him in, taking off his helmet and looking around at the room buried under the sod. It's not entirely dry in there, but then Nick supposes that nowhere can be out here.

"Doesn't that worry you?" Nick asks, nodding to the bulge in the metal roof.

Jeffy stops, midway through taking off his helmet, staring at Nick.

"There're 'undreds of Germans waiting to shoot 'oles in us the moment we peek up over the edge of the trench, d'you really fink that" Jeffy gestures upwards with his helmet. "is one of our main concerns?"

Nick laughs quietly, following Jeffy over to the table in corner of the small room and sitting down opposite him.

"Penny post!" Someone yells from behind Nick.

He turns to see an envelope flying toward his face, and ducks just in time to avoid getting hit by it. Jeffy laughs and catches the letter, placing it carefully on the table, before nodding toward the man who'd thrown it.

"That's Anderson." Jeffy tells him, leaning his elbows on the table.

Nick turns to look at him properly, taking in the neatly slicked back black hair, and the smile on his face. He also notes, with relief, that he might not be the shortest one in the regiment. Anderson raises a hand in greeting, dropping his pack down onto the ground.

"'e's a poet, ain't that right, Tips?" Jeffy says, grinning at Nick.

"Ye can shut your face, Penny. At least I can read!" Anderson calls back, laughing.

"I can read better than you can rhyme!"

"I'm Irish, poetry's in me soul..."

Jeffy glances at Nick, rolling his eyes.

"'e's not that bad, really..." Jeffy says, his voice hushed, jumping as Anderson brings his hand down on his shoulder.

"Who's this then?"

"Nicholas, Nicholas Duval." Nick says, reaching across to shake Anderson's proffered hand. "How'd you do?"

Anderson shakes his hand firmly, grinning.

"Blaine Anderson. Story with'ca." He winks, then turns and goes back to his pack, searching through it for something.

Nick looks to Jeffy, wide eyed in confusion, leaning in to whisper.

"Jeffy... he winked at me..."

"'e does that..." Jeffy smirks, then looks down at the letter in his hand, turning it over and over in his fingers.

"Is it from your family?" Nick says, nodding toward the envelope.

"'oo else is it gonna be from? Father Christmas?" Jeffy jokes, smiling at him. "Prob'ly from one of me sisters..."

"You have sisters?" Nick asks, leaning forward.

"I do... six of 'em." Jeffy sighs.

"Six!" Nick raises his eyebrows. "I thought two brothers was bad but six sisters..."

"Tell me about it..." he grins. "Kitty and Molly and Fran and Margie and Lydia and little Aggie." He rattles off, grinning like he's done it hundreds of times before - which, Nick realises, he probably has.

"You have sisters named Kitty and Lydia?" Nick laughs, "Really?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Oh... um... there are two sisters named Kitty and Lydia in Pride and Prejudice, I thought you might have been joking."

"Pride and Prejudice?"

"You've never heard of Pride and Prejudice?"

"I have." says a quiet voice from the corner. "It's one of my favourites, actually."

Nick looks up, only now noticing the boy sitting against the dug-out wall, carefully running a match along the edge of his shirt. His hair's very black, the military haircut identical to Nick's own, but with a few month's growth on it and it's only when he looks up and smiles that Nick realises exactly how young he is. The boy flinches and drops the match as it burns his fingers, laughing and standing up, walking over to Nick with his hand outstretched.

"I'm Felix."

"Nicholas." he replies, shaking Felix's hand, a little surprised at how firm his grip is.

"I know. I was listening." Felix smiles, "I'm on watch now. I'll see you later, chaps."

He nods to them both and disappears out of the dug-out entrance, pulling on his helmet as he does.

The moment he's gone, Nick turns round to face Jeffy.

"How old is he?"

Jeffy looks up from halfheartedly polishing the buttons on his coat and fixes his eyes on Nick's.

"'e's eighteen."

"Jeffy, he's clearly not eig-"

"'e's eighteen, and so am I."

"You're... you're not eighteen?" Nick asks, staring at him.

Jeffy nudges him, smiling.

"Welcome to the Trenches, Nicholas, welcome to the bloody trenches..."


As always, reviews are fantastic, thank you for reading, and this fic might be a little slower to update than past ones, and for that I apologise. Thanks!