Shell Shock - Captain Hastings x reader | The Hunting Trip
Summary: This plays during the episode "The Mystery of Hunter's Lodge", just that the real reason that Hastings hasn't gone to the hunting trip before is that he has PTSD (Shell Shock)
A/N: This is part of my Hastings x reader Shell Shock series (not finished, still being written)
Warnings: Mention of ptsd, active warfare, blood, guns, bombs, death
Shell Shock: a condition with psychological and psychosomatic symptoms resulting from exposure to active warfare, first identified in soldiers undergoing bombardment in the trenches in the First World War. Shell shock would now be regarded as a form of post-traumatic stress disorder.
"Are you really sure you want to do this?" you asked.
Hastings hesitated. He was, in fact, not sure at all. Like every year, his old friend Roger Havering had invited him on his annual hunting trip to his lodge. Just that this year, he hadn't declined. For the first time in 10 years.
"Yes ... I think so", Hastings hesitated. "I think I can do it. He's been asking me to come down there with his friends every year. And every year I feel bad for declining. But it has been over a decade since the war, I should be able to face a hunting party, shouldn't I?" his words didn't come across as confident as he had hoped for. Nonetheless, his mind was settled.
He would go, and he would be fine.
"Alright. But you know, you can change your mind any time. If you decide at any point, you don't want to be there anymore, we go back home. And if you are embarrassed in front of the others, I will pretend to be sick and you will look like a real gentleman accompanying me back to London" you offered.
"Thank you" he chuckled and kissed your lips.
So you packed and went on your way down to Roger Havering Lodge. Poirot was accompanying you too. Not because he had any interest in hunting. He only came along to eat in the evening what the other men had hunted during the day.
It was terribly cold when you arrived at the hunting grounds. A thick fog limited the view of the scenery that lay before you.
Hastings swallowed hard as he eyed the landscape. The cars had parked somewhat on top of a hill, at whose foot a wide moor, partially covered by a blanket of snow, stretched out. Scattered across the field were little cubicles of piled earth in the shape of half-circles for the hunters to stand in.
'Like reverse trenches', he thought.
The fog prevented most sunlight from coming through and made everything appear darker. The dark green grass, that from far away was not recognisable as such and could just as well have been blank earth. The hilly landscape, the snow and the trench like structures remind him way too much of the battlefields of the war for his taste.
Of course, under normal circumstances, his brain wouldn't have made this association so readily, but since he had already been worried that this trip would stir up too many old memories, the connection was already there and his brain jumped to it eagerly.
He forced the memories back down. and instead focused on Poirot, who placed his food order with him at the moment. Greetings were exchanged with the other members of the party, jokes were made and so distracted from his thoughts, Hastings thoughts that it wasn't that bad after all.
You, on the other hand seen his little moment of 'weakness'. Had seen the shadow of memory run across his face and noticed the tensing of his muscles.
You came up to him and took his hand. Speaking so close to his ear that only he could hear him, you asked again, "You still wanna do this?"
He only nodded and shot you a smile that supposedly meant something like "I'll be fine", but you weren't convinced. With a last squeeze of your hand, he departed down to the more with the rest of the party.
"Bonne chance, mon ami", Poirot called out
"Good luck," you wished him.
Hastings descended down the hill with the other members of the hunting party. Some talking, some joking, some laughing. For once, he was grateful for the freezing cold of English winter, as it had hardened the moor. Walking on squishy, mud-like ground was the last thing he needed right now.
They marched towards the cubicles ("cubicles, cubicles! not trenches!" he reminded himself) or rather he marched, since with a rifle over his shoulder, walking in a group of armed men, his body had automatically tuned into a military step.
He commanded his feet to adopt a more leisurely step, but they always fell back into the well-known rhythm.
"Once a soldier, always a soldier," one of the other guys laughed and patted him on the back. "What?- oh yes ... I suppose" Hastings smiled somewhat awkwardly as he corrected his step once again.
They reached the cubicles("cubicles! not trenches!"). Two men shared one. Hastings removed his gloves and set up his rifle as he waited for the hunt to begin.
A group of men had the job to scare the birds out of their hiding places. They did so by walking across the moor towards the hunters. Waving white flags and making a lot of noise.
Instinctively, Hastings wanted to duck away, or better, shoot, as his subconscious registered those men as enemy troops approaching through no-man 's-land.
He put his rifle down next to him before his hands could take action on their own. The man he shared the little trench ("no, not a trench, this is England goddamit") eyed him curiously. He quickly blew into his palms and rubbed them together, pretending that his hands had gotten cold and needed a break from holding the metal.
His hands weren't cold at all. On the contrary, he felt quite hot. His heart was beating like crazy and it took all his concentration to force his breath into a normal rhythm.
He sincerely hoped nothing betrayed the pathetic state he currently found himself in. It was embarrassing, really. He, who was introduced everywhere as Captain Hastings, couldn't stand a hunting trip. Impossible!
Then the first bird was spotted, and the first shot was fired. Hastings flinched.
He picked up his own rifle and aimed at a bird. The gunshots rang terribly in his ears. He smelled the smoke from the guns, tasted the metal on his tongue. Reality and memory got intertwined in his mind. He could swear he could make out the rattling of artillery fire among the gunshots.
Leaning against the piled up earth, his vision only focused on the target across his rifle he wasn't sure again he might not be leaning against the wall of a trench on the battlefields of france.
"Birds! We are in England! Hunting birds!" he reminded himself. He focused on the birds, on the task at hand, on the target. It helped, it centred his mind, drowned out everything else. He shot bird, after bird, after bird.
And just as he thought he had managed to distract himself from the memories and thought he might actually make it without breaking down, just then came the shouting.
A young man hat acidentally shot another. It was quite the superficial wound, there wasn't much damage, not even a lot of blood, but it was enough to set Hastings over the edge.
In an instant, he was back in the trenches. Artillery fire roared in his ears, only topped by the deafening thunder of shelling. The smell of smoke, metal, blood and death was omnipresent and made him sick to his stomach.
He could look out of the trench and into no-man's land. Could see wounded soldiers crawling back towards him through the mud and getting accidentally shot by their comrades.
One man had made it to safety, toppled down next to his feet, a huge gaping wound in his chest. Hastings wanted to crouch down, to help him, to call for help, but he found that neither his voice nor his body obeyed him.
Instead, he had to watch that young boy bleed out to his feet. He coughed terribly and cried. The colour slowly drained from his face until he lay grey and limp in the mud.
Hastings sank to the ground. Funny how his body could do this now.
You had watched Hastings from the hilltop with an opera glass. You had brought yourself a chair and sat next to Poirot. The two of you had had a pleasant conversation, even tho Poirot was constantly complaining of the cold.
You had been glad to see that your boyfriend had been holding up so well during the shooting, but as you watched him sink to the ground, you knew it was over.
You jumped up from your chair and ran down the hill, nearly falling over and breaking your neck in the process.
As you finally reached Hastings, you found him sunken to the ground, knees pressed to his chest, chest heaving, eyes unfocused, his mind miles away. He was trembling horribly, arms and hands being shaken by spasms that would for sure leave his muscles horribly sore tomorrow.
A group of men had gathered around him, calling out to him in an unkind manner. You sent them all away.
You crouched down next to Hastings and took his trembling hands in yours. "Athur! Arthur! Hey!" you called out to him, shaking him lightly.
He didn't even seem to register your words. Deciding it was best to snap him out of his flashback as fast as possible, you got a little container of smelling salts out of your pocket.
You held it under his nose, and it did its job. His head jerked away from the stinging smell. You then took a handful of snow and pressed it to his face. It brought him back enough to register your words.
"Arthur! What you are seeing is not real! You're in England. The war is over! You are safe." you reassured him.
Focus came back into his eyes. He looked at you, a tear rolled down his cheek. "It feels so real", he whispered breathlessly.
"I know, I know", you squeezed his hands tighter "But it's not. It's not real. Remember, you drove us here. To the English countryside, to a moor. You're not in France, you're not on a battlefield. You're safe. I'm here."
You talked him through it, you breathed with him, reminded him of his surroundings. When the images of war finally faded, he slumped against your shoulder and cried.
He tried to wrap his arms around you, but they were still shaking terribly, and so he settled for leaning against you, sobbing into your shirt.
You held him close, one hand running through his hair. "Hey, it's alright"
"No, I shouldn't have come here", he whined "I'm sorry."
"No, No, hey! You have nothing to be sorry for. You were really brave for coming here in the first place."
"It is embarrassing!" He cried, "I've been in the army. I've been in the war! And now I break down when I have to hunt birds."
"Yes, you've been in the war, and that is why you break down when hunting birds. You have survived things of the most horrible kind. And you are so strong, that you still are who you are after all that. That you still are such a great person, so calm and cheerful. And if you break down when shooting birds, so what? I am impressed that you don't break down more often"
"And besides, I'm sure you would have held up if it hadn't been for that accident", you encouraged him
"Maybe, but I felt horrible since the beginning. Also, they have all seen me here on the floor. It's embarrassing!" he whined.
"Who cares. We can leave right now if you want to, and you never have to see any of them ever again"
Hastings chuckled through his tears.
You sat there, together, for a while. Having pulled away from the hug, when Hastings had calmed down, you sat on the ground. Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand.
He still leaned heavily against you, his head resting against yours.
"I'm terribly sorry you have to sit here in the cold with me, I just -" he looked down on his shaking legs.
"It's alright", you placed a hand on his leg, steadying it a little "Poirot is the one who is freezing, I'm fine", you laughed.
"Thank you", he swallowed. "How is the man who got shot?"
"Oh, he's fine. The wound was only superficial. The bullet merely grazed his hand."
"Oh, really? That's great," Hastings exclaimed
You smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He let his head sink onto your shoulder.
It took a while for his body to stop trembling and for him to be able to use his legs again.
"I think I can get up", Hastings said doubtfully
"Really? If you need more time, we can stay a few more minutes. We aren't in a hurry."
"No, I think I can do it"
"Alright then, let's get away from here"
You got up first. Grabbing him by the arms, you helped him up. One knee gave way immediately, and you had to catch him, for otherwise he would have ended up right back on the ground.
"I'm sorry", he said as he clung to your upper body with his whole weight.
After this tho, his legs did what they were supposed to do, and with your help, he was able to walk.
Still rather wobbly and with you half carrying him, he made his way up the hill
