An Officer and a Monitor Walk Into a Base Pt.1

Sub-Lieutenant Erin Grimshaw was in a good mood as she sauntered towards the gates of HMNB Clyde. It was bloody cold—not unusual for Scotland—and early as balls, but she couldn’t help but grin as she tied her exceptionally well-maintained auburn hair into a tight bun as she prepared to make herself known. Oh, the last two weeks leave had simply been picture perfect! She had done all manner of activities in the Lake District, the weather had been magnificent and, after the most /romantic/ evening, her boyfriend had gotten down on one knee for her! Even four days on, she still wanted to squeal in delight and jump and spin for joy.

To make matters even better, her uncle—Commander Adam Bennett—had been transferred up, and she had little doubt that a bit of nudging and a smattering of doe-eyes from his favourite (and only) niece would land her a nice, cushy job indoors instead of inside one of those horribly cramped, dingy submarines the Royal Navy peddled around. She already had her eye on an office a few doors down from the one her uncle would be taking over—never hurt to be within shouting distance—one with a radiator that put out the /exact/ right amount of heat.

Yes, life could not conceivably get much better, and she had to restrain herself from skipping into the guardroom…

…where she was met by the ever grim-faced Chief Petty Officer McKendry, who somehow appeared even more dour than he usually did.

“Ma’am,” he said, snapping off a quick salute, which she returned.

“Petty Officer McKendry,” she greeted, curious and not a little apprehensive. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Afraid so, Ma’am.”

Her heart sank. She’d hoped to be able to speak with her uncle before returning to her duties. Fate, however, seemed to have other plans in mind after being so kind to her the last two weeks.

She could have asked the CPO to shove off. She had half a mind to, as he was no doubt bringing trouble right to her doorstep, as was his usual way. Instead, however, she plastered a helpful smile onto her face and nodded.

“All right, then. What is it?”

“It’s Lord Clive, ma’am.”

And Erin Grimshaw felt her whole world screech to a halt. She felt the colour drain from her face; felt her pores scream out in horror as she began to sweat; felt her strength sap away and her limbs quake as if they could scarcely support her own weight, and she would swear to her dying day that—for one terror-stricken moment—her heart stopped beating.

“I…” she began, and stopped, realising that her throat had dried up. She paused to swallow, cleared her throat, and tried again: “I see… is there anything in particular that she’s done?” she squeaked, wincing at her tone even as she dreaded the response she knew was coming. Lord Clive had to have done /something/. It was always something with the little Monitor.

McKendry shifted in place, appearing almost… /uncomfortable?!/ Oh, good lord, what on /Earth/ had she done that had so dismayed someone like /McKendry/ of all people!

“Well, ma’am. You’re aware of the recent transfer?”

“T-transfer?” she asked, feeling dazed and not a little light-headed.

“Commander Bennett.”

Oh no.

“O-oh. Y-yes. Commander… Bennett…” she trailed off, now feeling very ill indeed.

“They had an, uh… altercation, ma’am.”

“What sort of altercation?” she said in a small, timid voice. She wasn’t hearing this. She was far, far away; back in the Lake District, curled up in a huge, soft bed in a luxuriously comfy little cabin with Tom and…

“She punched him, ma’am.”

Punched…

“/Punched/ him?!” she shrieked. “Wha— /why?/”

“Can’t tell you, ma’am. I /can/ tell you that, well…” McKendry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “Commander Bennett’s going to be in hospital for a looong time.”

…

It was at that point where Erin decided it would be a whole lot easier for her to just roll her eyes up and faint.
***
Her first thought, upon awakening, was that she had suffered through a nightmare the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since… ever?

The next was that her head really, /really/ sodding hurt.

Erin groaned and shifted, hearing the ruffle of sheets as her consciousness returned in force. She didn’t want to get up. She felt exhausted and, even in her fatigued state, she was aware that some awful calamity awaited her once she finally pulled herself out of the cot she lay in.

“Erin?” a voice—quiet and cautious—inquired. “Are you awake?”

Erin recognised the voice, and the familiarity soothed her. She felt herself relax a fraction but only reluctantly opened her eyes.

Sub-Lieutenant Francesca Wilde, in all her blonde hair and hazel-eyed glory, stood by her bedside, peering down at her with a blend of curiosity and relief. Erin almost wanted to burst into tears and wrap her old friend up in a tight hug as she used to do when they were both young girls. Restraining herself took more effort than she would ever readily admit to, but she managed. Just.

“You um,” Fran paused, thinking for a moment on what she might say to boost her friend’s mood, failed, and slumped her shoulders in defeat, “…you look nice?”

“I don’t feel it,” Erin croaked pathetically.

Fran grimaced and scratched her cheek with a finger. “Did you at least enjoy the last two weeks?” she asked, after a few moment’s pause.

Erin’s response was to pull the sheets over her head and groan even more loudly.

“Is that a no?”

She stopped her moaning, ripped the sheets away and glared at her friend.

“I’d have you know that it was the best two weeks of my entire life!” she spat, indignant. “I was—”

She stopped herself from spilling the big secret just in time.

Fran quirked an eyebrow at her, “You were what?”

“…very happy,” she grumped, folding her arms across her chest.

The quirk of her brow swiftly became an arch as she regarded her friend, “Yes, well, I imagine I would be too if I’d spent two weeks with my boyfriend in the Lake District. Oh, wait,” she paused. Erin fought to roll her eyes, knowing full well what was coming.

“I don’t have one,” the pair of them said in perfect synchronisation. Fran frowned at her.

“Quit doing that.”

“Quit saying that every time that Tom comes up and I’ll stop,” Erin huffed.

Fran scowled, but said nothing more, and once a few moments passed and whatever vitriol had worked its way out of her system, her expression quickly shifted into a more genial smile.

“Well, I’m glad you’re all right.”

“No I’m not,” Erin groaned, “that little monster’s gone and ruined my first day back and it hasn’t even really started yet.” She noticed her friend suddenly stiffen, and her gaze flicker as if trying to check on something just out of her sight while trying not to be noticed herself.

“What’s wrong with you?” Erin asked, not a little worried at her fellow officer’s behaviour.

Fran responded first by clearing her throat, “I’ve, um, brought someone who wants to talk to you, actually…” she trailed off and suddenly found the wall to her right very interesting.

Erin felt her mood sour immediately. With Fran acting up all of a sudden, there could only really be two people she could possibly be referring to. A flicker of movement—someone shifting on one of the two visitors chairs—confirmed it for her scant moments later.

“I don’t really want to talk to /her/,” she groused, folding her arms like a petulant child. She hoped the tiny terror felt bad and adjusted her position to get a better look at the unwanted guest. Her bad mood worsened as she noticed that the architect of her woes appeared to have two earphones plugged in, and was likely ignorant of everything Erin had just said.

At first glance, HMS Lord Clive did not cut a particularly imposing figure. She was dressed in a long, black hunting coat that was twice her diminutive size that trailed across the ground like a cloak wherever she walked. A worn, grey flatcap was perched at an angle atop a shock of reddish-brown hair and her thunderous expression, ever at odds with her comparatively innocent physical appearance, was directed at the floor as she slouched in her chair.

Fran risked a backward glance, gulped and then leaned in close, “/Please/, Erin, you are the only person here that she seems to like—”

“/Like!/” Erin guffawed. “That spiteful little creature is wholly incapable of /liking/ anyone! She /tolerates/ me, Fran, and nothing more.” She paused, and then asked, “Where’s Valiant? She can rein her in, surely—”

Fran shushed her with a finger and risked a glance toward the other guest, perhaps making sure that the subject of their increasingly heated discussion wasn’t paying them any attention. Erin couldn’t have cared less. Her friend, once satisfied that she wasn’t going to have to contend with two angry young women, turned back to her bed-ridden pal with a stony look.

“Valiant is out on a patrol, if you must know. But, even if she /were/ here, none of that changes the fact that /you/ are the only one who can actually get anything out of her!” She hissed. Erin seethed but didn’t argue the point. Fran paused, sighed and then pulled away, “Look, I can’t stay—I have my own duties to get back to—but /please/, Erin. Try to talk to her. Maybe find out why she did what she did? I overheard people talking before I made my way here with her. They’re… concerned.”

Erin snorted in derision, ignoring the pointed look that Fran gave her.

“Don’t give me that, Erin. You owe it to your uncle for starters—yes I /did/ know; you were the one who wouldn’t stop gushing about it over the phone, remember? You also owe it to her. Like it or not, you’re the only one who has even a shot at working out what is going on in her head. Now pull yourself together, or I am going to get /very/ cross.”

To her credit, Erin held her gaze for a lot longer than she normally did. It always ended the same way, though. A flicker at first, and then she would look away, as she always did whenever Fran was in one of these moods. And, as was so often the case, she had a point. A very, very minor point that Erin would have been more than content to ignore for all eternity, but a point it was.

With a sour face and a terrible mood, she nodded. Just.

“Good girl,” chirped her friend. “Now rest up, have yourselves a nice little talk, and I’ll be back to check on you before the evening. Promise.” With that, she stood up and made to leave, waving as she did so.

“Toodle-oo!”

And like that, Erin was left alone in a room with a cranky Monitor-class.

…

She felt unbelievably awkward.

…

What would she even start off with?

…

“Are you going to say /anything?/”

The question was so sudden, so abrupt, that Erin jumped in surprise, releasing an obscenely high-pitched squeak and almost levitating half a foot off her bed. She landed with a thump, blinked, and turned to face Lord Clive, who was watching her with a blend of curiosity and disgust. The Sub-lieutenant felt herself flush and, swiftly, the surprise ebbed away, giving ground to fury. How bloody well /dare/ she! Her! The cause of so much mayhem and misery since the day she’d…

“Bleeding softie, you are,” the little girl grumped. “No sailor that walked my hull back in the day would’ve so much as flinched even if a gun exploded in front of them.”

“I rather think they’d have /other/ things to worry about in that event,” Erin bit back icily.

A frigid silence descended upon the pair, both eyeing the other with frosty expressions. Lord Clive slouched further into her chair and somehow deepened her frown. Did she suck on lemons to craft such an exquisite display of displeasure? Erin wondered silently.

“So, what happens now?” she asked disinterestedly. “Am I confined to my room until I get bored and rip the door off again? Do I have one of those squishy Royal Marines follow me everywhere until I get bored and toss him into the Loch again? Or do you do something /really/ heinous and give me a slap on the wrist and tell me not to punch people cause it hurts their feelings… again.”

Erin was about to snap at her but reined herself in just in time. This was already starting off poorly and she really didn’t want to trigger another violent reaction in the little Monitor. So, instead, she stewed in her own bubbling rage, trying to quieten it down enough for a calm, rational conversation rather than a screaming match. Once she felt she wasn’t going to fantasise about clawing at Lord Clive’s eyeballs, she asked her a question.

Just a simple question.

“Why… did you punch him?”

Lord Clive snorted, “Going to have to be more specific than that, love.”

Erin inhaled deeply through the nose and tried again.

“Why did you punch Commander Bennett?” she asked.

“Oh,” the Monitor said, and Erin was sure she saw her eye twitch, “Him.”

“Yes. Him. Why?”

“He got on my nerves,” came the blunt reply.

/Calm thoughts. Calm thoughts,/ Erin repeated to herself, letting it become her mantra as she delved deep to find the strength not to explode like a firework display on New Years.

“You—” she stopped, cutting herself off; trying, trying, always bloody /trying/—

“You are aware that it’s that kind of thing that makes everyone so bloody skittish around you,” a voice said. Erin blinked, and realised that it had been her own.

“Yeah,” was the only response, after a brief pause. “I know.”

“So why on earth do you keep doing it?” she asked the tiny girl, exasperated.

“Because /they/ keep pissing doing it,” Lord Clive shot back, voice rising a few octaves.

“Doing /what?/”

“You know damned well what!” The Monitor shouted, eyes wide, teeth bared and nostrils flared. If she hadn’t been before, she was well and truly pissed off now.

Well, that made two of them.

“No!” Erin shrieked, throwing her arms up in the air. “No, I really do bloody well /not!/ I have no earthly idea why you have been such a gigantic pain in the backside ever since you came back! All you do is grouse and complain and moan and generally be a horrid, spiteful little demon-thing who cares not one jot for how her selfish actions hurt everyone around her!”

There was a short, sharp bark of laughter from the Monitor, “/I’m/ selfish?! Have you ever taken a good, long look in the mirror, sweetheart? I know all about the skiving, the pushing off responsibilities, and—oh yeah, a little favour you were going to ask your uncle who transferred in today! Yeah, I knew!” She added, to Erin’s stark, white-faced shock.

“How…” Erin stumbled, then shook her head, the indignant fury returning in force. “Who on earth told you all that?”

Lord Clive didn’t answer for several heart-pounding moments. Erin’s face was aflame with rage, hurt, and even a little shame if she dug deep enough, and she could hear her blood pounding in her head like a war drum. She did not regard herself as a particularly aggressive person, but in that moment, she would have delighted in throttling the belligerent little warship.

And then something very odd happened.

Lord Clive backed off, her own anger dissipating like a thin morning mist. She too, was red-faced, but sullen now, where before she had been explosive. Without another word, she hopped off the chair and stomped towards the door, throwing it open with enough force to rip it from its hinges and send it clattering into the hallway, startling a nurse. She stood in the open portal for a moment, as if daring anyone to say anything.

No one did.

With what could have been a grunt of disappointment, Lord Clive stuffed her small hands into the pockets of her coat and stalked away.
***
She was keenly aware that she was absolutely freezing. Shivering, Erin picked herself up from her crunchy, blindingly white bed and—

/Wait a moment. That’s not right./

She took a breath, and began to cough and splutter as bitter, cold air rushed down her throat and into her lungs. She swallowed, and the fit ended as swiftly as it had begun. Groggily, miserably, she reached out and felt out her surroundings, wondering if she had perhaps gone blind. There was so much white…

There was a sudden gust of wind that was so bitingly cold that it felt like it had cut through her like a hail of razor blades and Erin cried out and pulled her aching limbs close to her body, teeth chattering, exposed skin stinging. A tear rolled out of her eye and froze on her face.

“H-h-h-h-h…” she started, but she was so cold and the words wouldn’t come.

“H-h-h-elp… m-m-me,” she begged. Her limbs were dead and numb; she couldn’t feel anything except this hellish cold. Was this how she was to die—alone in a frozen tundra? With what little strength still remained to her, she craned her head skyward for any sort of sign that someone—anyone—had heard her, or was on their way.

It was night time, that much was clear even in her state. Curiously, despite her peril, she noticed that there was not a star to be seen; the only sources of light were a full moon that hung low in the sky, shining like a dim pearl stud on a midnight black canvas, and…

/An Aurora?/ Erin wondered feebly, even as her vision began to darken. Was she… somewhere? It was hard to think. Too much effort to think. Take a nap. Wake up when it’s warmer. That sounds nice. Sounds…

As she felt herself drift away from all of her concerns and her fears, she was dimly aware of something approaching, snow crunching softly underfoot as a small, indistinct figure drew ever closer…
***
She awoke with a start, feeling strangely cold. A wipe of her brow confirmed that she had broken out into a cold sweat. She stared at her damp sleeve for a moment before scowling at it.

“Bloody again?” she wondered aloud. Checking the time, she found that it had just gone three in the morning. Briefly, she pondered making her way back down to the infirmary and raising a stink, but squashed the thought the instant it cropped to mind.

/Simmer down, it’s not her fault. Simmer. Simmer,/ she repeated to herself in her head. She hated dreaming. Only it wasn’t dreaming. Not completely. She’d thought that it would get better now but, obviously, that was wishful thinking.

She ground her teeth in frustration before sucking in a quick lungful of air, and then, blowing out her cheeks, Lord Clive wondered how she might pass the next three hours before reveille.