Kitty ducks out of the ward tent at exactly half past one, half an hour past the end of her shift. It's common for her to work long into her free time, but she's not eaten since seven in the morning and her stomach growls stubbornly.
She passes Miles on the quad, wearing his white coat over his uniform and a broad smile. "Hello, Miss Trevelyan," he grins, "you must be looking for me this time."
"No," she says brusquely. It's become something of a game to them; Miles stopping her on the walkways and flirting desperately, Kitty responding with as few words as possible.
He sighs theatrically. "My heart is broken. Nonetheless, you have found me. Will you accompany me to the mess tent?"
"Where's your friend?" she responds, looking around for the other Captain. The two are frequently found together, even share a tent. Miles seems to have a relaxing effect on the severe Scotsman and Kitty's noticed he never flirts quite so much when Captain Gillan is present.
Miles eyes her, interest sparking in his eyes. "Captain Gillan is unfortunately detained. The poor man isn't allowed on duty for the next three days."
"Why ever not?" Kitty asks, mentally cursing herself for allowing Miles to draw her into a conversation.
"He has a cold. Can't have him giving it to a patient, can we?"
Kitty is struck with a sudden urge to laugh. Captain Gillan is never anything less than perfectly smart and polished; the idea of him in bed with a cold is undeniably comical. "I imagine he's not too happy about that," she observes. Gillan's work ethic and compassion for his patients are legendary.
"Indeed, he's in a rare temper. Why don't you go and see if you can cheer him up?" Miles suggests, smirking wickedly.
A flush steals up her neck. "That would hardly be proper," she argues.
Miles shrugs, gesturing for her to follow him to the mess tent. "Take him some soup. I won't tell if you don't."
"What do you want, Captain Hesketh-Thorne?"
He smiles affably. "Humour me; it'll be hilarious."
That's how she finds herself stood outside the Captains' tent holding a flask of soup. She can hear the sound of typewriter keys clacking, broken by the occasional sniff.
Kitty shifts the flask awkwardly into the other hand. The tent flaps are pinned closed, and there's nothing for her to knock. Eventually, she clears her throat. "Captain Gillan? Tom?"
The typewriter silences. "Who is it?" he calls warily. His normally thick accent is thickened by his cold in a way that hardens the vowels into something almost unrecognisable.
"Nurse Trevelyan. Captain Hesketh-Thorne sent me to bring you this," she replies, realising too late that she hasn't mentioned what 'this' is.
She hears him move inside the tent and a moment later the flap is drawn back. Kitty stifles a small laugh; Captain Thomas Gillan with a cold is not a particularly impressive sight. His usually neat hair is dishevelled, falling across his forehead. His lips are chapped and his nose is red; his tie is missing and the top three buttons of his shirt open. His sleeves are rolled up and his braces hang around his waist.
Noticing her perusal, he folds his arms across his chest. "Can I help you?"
"I think the idea is that I help you." She tells him, holding out the soup.
He stares blankly and sniffs again. "Help me? Shouldn't you be working?"
"I had the morning shift. Miles sent me to—" to cheer you up. "To see if you were alright." She finishes awkwardly.
He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Why should you need to do that? A cold is not a deadly illness, Miss Trevelyan."
"I know that," she snaps, then pauses. Captain Gillan has an unparalleled ability to rile her, something she refuses to allow. "Perhaps I might help you be more comfortable. I am a nurse."
He steps back, allowing her into the tent. It's immediately very clear to Kitty that it's the domain of two young men, and also that one is tidier than the other. She perches on a chair beside the bed nearest to her; it's covered in clothes and magazines, a copy of Tarzan open on the pillow. The other half of the ten is occupied by neatly stacked papers and medical journals, a typewriter perched on a small desk. Tom sits on the bed opposite her and stares her down.
"What is this?" he asks, unscrewing the thermos.
"Soup," she tells him unnecessarily as the aroma of vegetable soup fills the small space.
He reaches absently for a handkerchief balled next to the typewriter. "Thank you. Is there anything else Miles put you up to?"
"Look, there's no need for you to be so hostile! I'm trying to help you," she says hotly.
He looks up sharply, clenching his fist tight around the flask. "Tell me, Miss Trevelyan. Do you have a medical degree?"
"No, I—"
"And are you a doctor?"
"Of course not, but—"
"Then I have you at a disadvantage on two counts. What precisely are you going to do for me that I can't do for myself?" He snaps.
She meets his stony look with a glare. "We could start with teaching you basic manners, Captain Gillan," she retorts.
His face goes completely blank, and they fall into silence. "I'm sorry," he says at last. "I don't like not being able to work. My patients need consistent treatment, but I can't risk giving them this . . . it's not fair to take it out on you."
She smiles softly. "We always seem to wind each other up, don't we?"
"Somehow, yes," he agrees, smiling tentatively. Their eyes meet, deep chocolate brown and sky blue, before he sneezes violently, startling them both.
"God bless you!" Kitty laughs.
He flushes, blowing his nose on the handkerchief balled in his fist. "I can't shake this bloody cold," he mutters.
In the five years of Sylvie's life, Kitty's sat with her through numerous colds, chicken pox, measles and scarlet fever; she's something of an expert at entertaining ill people. "I've always found it helps to be distracted, Captain. You won't feel so ill if you're doing something."
"I can't," he tells her blankly. "I'm not allowed on duty."
"Not work," she says. "Fun things." Perhaps entertaining a taciturn army officer in his late twenties will be a little harder than an excitable four year old.
Kitty frowns down at her cards. She's been in the Captains' tent for nearly an hour now. Tom had quickly obliterated her at chess, and they're now well into their third game of Rummy. They've each won a game, and they've discovered they're both fiercely competitive. Tom sits on the other side of his small desk (his typewriter has been relegated to the floor), his long legs stretched out in front of him. Kitty sits with one foot curled beneath her, hunched protectively over her cards.
A rare smile breaks across Tom's face and he throws down his hand; all four jacks stare up at her with their painted eyes. "Rummy!" Tom declares, kicking back on his chair. He's relaxed over the past hour, sharing more smiles and contributing more conversation. Perhaps, Kitty thinks, this is the Tom Miles sees every day.
"Damn. Well done, I suppose," she mutters, flicking her own cards onto the table.
He smirks. "You're a worse loser than Miles, Miss Trevelyan."
"Kitty," she says impulsively.
He blinks and clears his throat. "Kitty, then." Her name sounds foreign and warm in his accent, so different to Elliot's cold, slimy tone. It's only fair, she reasons, to have him use her Christian name when she's been calling him Tom.
"Shall we play something else?" She suggests, smiling winningly.
"What would you like to play?" he asks, then winces slightly, one hand going to his temple.
Kitty peers at him. "You have a headache?"
He waves her off, blowing his nose again. "It's nothing, just my sinuses."
"Try a cup of tea," she suggests. He looks at her sideways, suspicious of anyone offering him medical advice. Kitty wonders who challenged his expertise so brazenly to put him on edge whenever anyone discusses remedies; Yelland, probably.
He moves over to the burner in the corner of the tent and sets the kettle to boil. He breathes in the steam and blows his nose again, sighing with the relief. The steam makes her curly hair frizzy, but it's worth it to see Tom's tense expression relax a bit. When the kettle boils, he makes two cups of tea. He works methodically, silently, and presents her cup to her without a word.
She take a long sip of the hot liquid and sigh in pleasure. He makes it perfectly, just the way her mother used to. "This is wonderful, Tom. I could kiss you." She freezes as soon as the words leave her lips, a vivid blush crawling across her cheeks. He swallows uncomfortably and stares into his tea cup, studiously ignoring the way his ears are going red.
"I wouldn't, if I were you," he mumbles. "You'd not want this cold."
More relieved than amused, she laughs loudly. "You're not wrong."
An hour later, that's how Miles finds them, talking quietly, half-shy at their new intimacy. Kitty stands quickly when he walks into the tent, setting her tea cup down on the desk.
"I hope you feel better soon, Captain Gillan," she calls over her shoulder, hurrying out of the tent. She hears Miles' amused voice and Tom's defensive retort as she walks away, trying to forget the knowing look in Miles' eyes when he'd seen them sat on Tom's bed close enough for their legs to brush. She doesn't quite manage to forget the warmth of his knee against hers.
The next day, Matron is furious when Kitty reports to work with a terrible cough and her nose red and running. "I'm short enough on staff as it is," she snaps. "You can't be around patients like this, you're as bad as Captain Gillan."
Kitty nods meekly and heads back to her tent, sniffing miserably. At the last minute, she heads towards another tent, and a smile grows on her face.