hasperkynipples | civil war au } { please leave the light on for me

It seems like a peaceful day as Christine and her chaperone return from her paying calls in the neighborhood. Though her mother often feels too low to go, Christine feels the trips must be made and the calls paid to hold on to a sense of normalcy now that things have been turned on their head.

But the soldier collapsed against the fence is far from normal. Her maid gasps, freezing in place, but Christine moves forward to see what's wrong. Up close she can see the blood staining the side of his uniform and when her eyes lift to check and see if he's still conscious, she's startled to see that it's the soldier she spoke with twice before.

"Private Winchester! What has happened? Oh, never mind, I see what's happened. We need to do something." Turning, she waves for the maid. "Hurry, get Franklin. Tell him he's needed out here." The maid hurries to do as she's told and Christine looks back at Dean.

"Our butler can help get you inside."

He tries to keep focused on her voice, knowing that his chances are better if he stays conscious. It's not easy - he can barely make out her face - but he's doing his best.

"They came out of nowhere," he says groggily. "I should have seen them coming."

"Who did?" she asks, wondering if she shouldn't get down beside him and aid him in some manner. But all she can offer is a handkerchief and his hand is doing a good enough job of holding in the blood. She doesn't want to disturb his wound to place it there while they're still outside.

For all Christine's bravado and talk of the South prevailing, she doesn't like to see a man wounded, even if he is in a blue uniform. She hopes the butler hurries, but if he's upstairs, it would take more time for the maid to alert him.

"Locals, I think. I didn't really see their faces, but they didn't look like soldiers." His eyes blink up at her, trying to focus again. "I tried to fight back but there were too many of them."

"Oh, dear," she says, biting her lip. She knows the young men stuck in the city had been simmering in anger, but to see the result gave her no pleasure.

"You'll be all right. I am sure of it. Oh, here comes the butler now." Once the man is standing there in his crisp uniform, Christine quickly explains the situation.

"What do you think?" she asks, looking between the two men. "Can he walk with support, or should he be carried completely?" The butler expresses concern that he isn't strong enough to carry him, but then the maid reappears, probably more to collect gossip than to help, but Christine gets an idea.

"Mary and I can each take a leg, and you can carry his upper body, yes?" She moves to rest her fingertips gently on Dean's shoulder. "We will move you now. I am afraid this will hurt."

He doesn't think he can handle anymore pain, but for some reason he trusts her, at least in this moment. He presses his hand even more firmly against the wound before nodding to her. "There isn't much that doesn't."

Christine can safely say she's never held a man's leg before, but here she is, hoisting that part of him up to help carry him inside. He's far heavier than he looks, but then again, she's a woman who's never had to carry anything heavier than a good book so her experience isn't much to go on.

As they head towards the back door that leads into the kitchen, the cook comes out, hands over her mouth in shock. Christine instructs her to set some linens over the settee in the drawing room and that Private Winchester should be taken there.

Soon enough she, the maid, and the butler are easing Dean down onto the settee, and Christine rubs her hands which are now sore.

"We should send for the doctor. There's so much blood."

She wasn't kidding when she said it would be painful. He did his best not squirm too much, but the pain is excruciating. He settles onto the settee, panting to try and let the worst of the pain fade before looking up at her.

"Do you think he will treat me?"

"Oh, well, surely...?" She exchanges a look with the butler, who doesn't look too sure. "Go and try to convince him. As a good Christian man, he should help all in need." The man dips a stiff bow, departs, and Christine instructs the maid to distract her mother upstairs while the cook is to bring a bowl of warm water and a sponge. The cooks looks unsure of leaving her mistress alone with a Yankee, but Christine soothes her worry and waves her away.

Once alone, she hesitates, then kneels down beside the settee, arranging her skirts around her.

"I think I can look after you until the doctor arrives. Let's get your wound clean so he can get right to stitching you up." Her fingers move towards him and for the first time she feels a little shy.

He meets her eyes briefly for a moment, trying to figure out why she is hesitating, but he isn't sure he could do much to reassure her. All he really can do is try and place his trust in her - easy to give when she's already helping him when she didn't have to.

"I trust you, Miss Chapel. Whatever you need to do."

And in the end, she will have his immense gratitude.

"All right," she says, blushing faintly with pride at being thought trustworthy. "I'm going to start by unbuttoning your jacket and then untucking your shirt."

She carefully moves her hands over each brass button and pushes it back through its button hole, peeling the fabric back as she does. The cook returns with a bowl of warm water and a cloth, which Christine instructs her to set on the floor. When she reaches the area of the wound, she can't pull the jacket away from the drying blood, so she saturates the fabric with a little squeeze of water from the cloth and carefully pulls the jacket aside once the blood lets go of it.

Letting out a breath, she then sets the cloth aside and moves for his shirt. The blood doesn't bother her as much as she thought it would. Perhaps that is because she's spent the last few months hanging around the kitchen far more than she ever had before in her life and she's seen bits of bloody meat cut up for meals.

"How are you doing so far, Private?"

The shifting isn't as painful until she starts to pull his jacket away from the room, but even then it's not as bad as it could have been. There could have been a lot more rush involved, and he's grateful for the time she takes.

"I'm fine." Still conscious at least. "How bad is it?"

"I won't know until I get your shirt up," she says, concentrating on doing it without causing further harm. Carefully, she rolls the linen up until it too sticks to the wound and she pauses to wet it before very gently lifting it off. Once the shirt is up and out of the way on his chest, she sees the gash and the dribble of blood flowing out now that there's no pressure to slow it. Quickly, she folds the cloth to a clean area and presses it to the wound.

"Oh, dear." Her voice is slightly higher pitched now and her eyes are wide. "Oh... heavens. Was that done with a knife? Don't fret. The doctor can sew it closed, I'm sure of it. He'll be here soon. Yes, surely he will be. Our butler will convince him and he'll come and you'll be fine, just fine." By now, Dean will probably be able to tell from the way Christine won't stop talking that she's nearing hysteria.

His fingers are sticky with dried blood - he can feel it in the way they bend a bit stiffly at the knuckles - but he still moves them to cover hers, where she's applying pressure to the wound. He doesn't know why he's offering her comfort, but she can probably better help if she's calm.

"I'm sure he will."

Regardless, Dean is simply glad to know that someone is helping him, and even if he were to die, someone will know what happen to him, and be able to tell his unit. He doesn't want to die, but if he does, he wants his family to at least know why.

She can't breathe too hard while wearing a corset, lest she faint, but Christine tries her best to stay calm and take slow breaths. Her eyes close and she says a silent prayer for this soldier in their drawing room. How will she bear it if he dies? The guilt would eat at her, because she would believe she could have done more.

"Yes, yes, he will." It's barely a whisper and she repeats it a few times before opening her eyes and meeting his green ones. "Oh, I didn't believe the men of this city capable of such cruelty."

"War can drive men to be capable of a lot of things," he says quietly, his eyes falling closed again. "Especially if they see themselves as being the victims in it all - not that they're not, but it can make monsters of men."

When men see a wrong they feel they need to right, there's nothing they won't do. That's how they wound up in this war in the first place.

"I have been sheltered from it all before now," she says, sounding sad. It's like she's had her eyes opened for the first time since the war started. Everything was so positive at first, with men signing up to defend their new country and she felt so proud of them. Now she thinks of these men who did this and she feels nothing but shame.

"Now I know that man is capable of anything."

"Sometimes it's good to be sheltered," he says, his voice still soft as he tries to stay conscious, focusing on her voice as a kind of tether. "It's easier to hope that way." Idealists are always those who can try and see the world for the better place it should be.

She leans in closer as his voice becomes harder to hear.

"No, no, please don't fall asleep. I think that would be very bad if you did. Here now; look at me." Christine reaches out to touch his cheek with her thumb and gives herself a little shiver at how bold she's being.

He turns into her touch, forcing his eyes open to try and make contact with hers. It's probably the hardest thing he's ever done, and he isn't sure how much longer he will be able to keep fighting it when being unconscious is so incredibly tempting at the moment.

All the same, he tries.

"How far away is the doctor?"

"Several streets away, but I am sure he's taking a carriage. That should hurry things along." She allows her thumb to slide along his skin, telling herself it's to be comforting and not simply because she's curious as to how a man's skin feels. Behind her, the cook clears her throat and Christine jumps a little, having forgotten she was there. She moves to sit back, blushing.

But then she hears the door open and she holds her breath until the door to the drawing room opens and in comes the doctor. She releases the breath and gives a joyous smile.

"Oh, Doctor! I knew you'd come!"

The man sets down his bag and starts rolling up his jacket sleeves while ordering fresh water and cloths.

There's a part of him that sags in relief at the fact that the doctor is here, letting her go so that she could make room for the other man. He tries to answer the doctor's questions as best he can, but he's still fading in and out and it takes some time.

Christine hands over the cloth still pressed to the wound to the doctor, who holds it on until she can stand and move out of the way. Her fingers have traces of his blood there and the cook fusses that she needs to come to the kitchen and wash her hands. Christine won't be moved, however, standing back to see if she can assist in any way. But the doctor is a seasoned expert and after an examination, he concludes no organs have been damaged and works on sewing Dean up.

The cook leaves for a moment and returns with another wet cloth and takes her mistress's hand, wiping it clean. Christine barely registers this, worrying about how the stitching must hurt.

"Please, may I come hold his hand?"

He can feel the stitches pulling at his skin but the pain is minimal in comparison to the rest of the pain his body is in. He lets the doctor do what he needs to do, trying to focus on Christine's voice as much as he can, trying to stay tethered to the world here.

"I don't see what harm it would do." The doctor replies, glancing between them uncertainly for a moment, before nodding.

Christine hurries over and takes Dean's hand in both of hers while the cook squawks that she just cleaned her hand and now she's gone and made it bloody again. But Christine pays her no heed and instead she squeezes Dean's hand all the more. Let his blood coat her skin if it will, though she's sure it's all dried by now and only leaving flakes behind.

"Why don't you tell me of your home, of Kansas. You see, I've remembered."

"It's a small little plot. Nothing fancy." He exhales slowly, letting his mind drift back to thoughts of home. "We're a small family. My parents and my brother, when he isn't off at school."

"I don't have any siblings," she answers. "It can be a little lonely." And a big brother has always seemed nice, because she'd have someone to fight for her honor. An older sister seems nice because she could reveal to her all the secrets of womanhood that her mother dances around. And of course, if Christine had had a younger sister, she would do the same for her. Setting that thought aside, she keeps talking. "But do you grow food on your land?"

He nods weakly. "Mostly they sell the grain and corn, but my mom has a vegetable garden for the house. She likes growing her own." His hand tightens around hers, suddenly setting in that he may never see her again.

He misses her more than he will ever say.

"And you grew up eating all kinds of wonderful vegetables, I'm sure." Briefly, her eyes flicker down to see how the stitching is coming. The doctor's about halfway done and already Dean isn't bleeding half as much.

"D'you have a favorite meal that she makes?"

"She makes the best apple pie." That's not a meal, Dean. But it's the truth. "Just the right combination of sweet and tart." He's trying not to think about the stitching, but at least he's starting to feel a bit better.

Christine heartily agrees. "Oh, apple pie is wonderful!" If only they had one prepared she would fetch him a slice, not realizing that a patient should have much blander fare like broth and bread.

"I don't suppose you get apple pie at your base camp, do you?"

"No, we don't. They don't exactly travel well. We mostly have stew and beans." They don't taste nearly as good, but they keep them alive. That's what matters.

At this point the doctor clears his throat and sees an opening. "Speaking of base camp, you shouldn't be moved back there for a day or two. Any movements like on a litter or wagon will tear your stitches."

Her cheeks tinged a little pink, Christine asks, "He's to stay here, then? How should I-- I mean we, we care for him?" She's given instruction on how to check the bandage he'll put on when he's through and what to feed Dean, among other things. Christine feels quite proud being in charge and that the doctor is telling her these things. But the man's been to the house several times to see her mother and he knows neither Mrs. Chapel nor her husband have the disposition to handle this matter.

"Will there be a way to get word to my sergeant? I don't want them to think I deserted." Because even when he's bleeding out from a knife wound, he doesn't want his unit to think he had left them.

"Of course. We'll send a messenger with a note. Once you're all settled in, you can tell me who to address it to." Though she supposes she'll have to have her father write the note. Which means breaking the news that there's a Yankee in his drawing room. Christine tries not to wince at the thought.

The doctor finishes with the stitching and begins to get a bandage together, telling Dean he'll need to sit up carefully so he can wind the bandage around him. Christine reluctantly releases his hand.

Dean nods a bit, moving the hand that Christine was holding to brace himself against the sofa, pushing himself into a sitting position. There's a clear look of pain on his face, but beyond the grimace, he manages to sit upright enough for the doctor to bandage him.

After the doctor finishes up, Christine quickly fetches a few pillows from the hope chest in the corner and places them against the arm of the settee before encouraging Dean to lie back once more. She knows she'll have to tell her father about the situation now, and she's dreading it.

"Here, are you comfortable? Would you like a blanket?"

"No," he shakes his head as he eases himself back down again. "I am fine. You have done more than enough for me." He doesn't know how he's going to thank her, but he'll have to do something. Someday. Somehow.

"All right. I will just see the doctor out." She leaves briefly to do that and then hesitates by the staircase. She can't face her father yet. Instead she moves to a desk and takes out a piece of paper, an inkwell, and a nibbed pen, bringing them over to Dean's side where she sets them on an end table, preparing the pen.

"Now, could you tell me the name of your superior officer, please?"

"Singer," he says with a nod, leaning back against the lounge with his eyes closed. "Captain Robert Singer." The rest of them mostly call him Bobby, but if it's something formal like this he wants it to be clear.

She murmurs the words slowly as she writes them out, then she pauses, staring at the page.

"My father will not be pleased you are here, but I promise I will not let him move you until you are better." It's partly a matter of pride. She needs to show him that not all people in New Orleans are like the men who attacked him. She can be civil, and giving, and everything a good Christian should be.

"I'm sorry to have caused you any trouble. But I am incredibly grateful for your help. Thank you, Miss Chapel."

And honestly, if her father was that troubled by his being here, he would do his best to leave.

"Oh no, please." Christine moves close, closer than she probably should now that he's out of danger. "I am sorry that there are such rough men in this city, whose anger became too much for them to temper. Please, do not think you're any trouble at all."

It wasn't long ago when she considered all Yankees to be trouble, but now that she's seen his blood and the pain in his eyes, she can no longer think such things.

"Will you be well for a moment while I go upstairs?"

He nods slowly, unsure if her father will see things the same way she does, but he is comforted by the fact that she at least does. He has never seen the people of the south as monsters. They simply believed something different than he did.

"I will be fine."

Christine nods and heads upstairs. She's there for a good ten minutes and at one point her voice and her father's are raised in argument, but finally she returns downstairs with a folded piece of paper in her hand. Her face is a little red, and her eyes are red-rimmed too.

"Still fine, Private?" she asks lightly, moving to fold the paper up in the other with Captain Singer's name on it to serve as an envelope.

He nods, watching her as he does. He hates that he's caused her all this trouble. "Still fine, Miss Chapel."

"Good, good. Papa's written to your Captain, asking him to allow you to take your rest here. He doesn't want anyone to see soldiers carrying you from the house." She finishes up with the letter and sets it aside.

"We'll hire you a carriage to drop you off a street or two away from your base as soon as you feel better. And we'll put you in civilian clothes so no one suspects anything. It was the only way I could get Papa to agree."

"Of course," he nods. "I wouldn't want you to have any more trouble than I've already created. Whatever he needs me to do, I will." It's the least he could do after these people essentially saved his life. "I will try not to be here any longer than I have to be."

"You didn't create the problem, though." At this point, she's not sure who deserves the blame, whether it be the men who attacked, or whoever was in charge of the decision to invade and hold New Orleans for the North, or maybe the U.S. government itself. She does want to blame someone, but it's certainly not the man lying down in her drawing room with bandages around his waist.

"I hope you'll be comfortable down here. I'll get you a blanket for tonight and if you need more pillows, I'd be happy to fetch more. Or, well, do anything you need me to do, really. If you'd like to send word home, I could write out what you say and mail it for you. Or I'm sure I can find you a set of playing cards around here if you'd like to play. Anything."

Because she's just so desperate to both be a good host and to prove herself capable of handling a very stressful situation.

He shakes his head. "I wouldn't want to worry them, especially if I'm going to be fine." He shifts a bit before turning to her with a smile. "The cards sound like fun - so long as there is someone to play with."

"Oh, well maybe I could play with you? I don't know many card games and I certainly don't gamble, but I can follow along easily enough." She moved to search the room, thinking her father probably had a deck or two. After looking through the drawers of a sidebar with a cabinet on top, she pulled out a deck and returned, holding them out to him.

"Here we are. I will just move a chair closer and we can use this end table."

He takes the cards from her hands, glancing over them before nodding. "I'm sure I can teach you a few games. My brother and I used to play Gin Rummy when we were children."

He'll even shift a bit to try and sit up more, that way he could reach the table better.

Moving the furniture takes a minute since she has no wish to ask for help from the staff. It might be selfish, but she likes having him all to herself without supervision. It certainly wouldn't be seen as proper, but allowances have to be made. He hardly seems likely to advance on her when so injured.

"There now, is this close enough?" Her hands rest on the tabletop, willing to move it closer to him before she takes her own seat.

He turns to face her a little more, a slight wince at the motion, but he can sit enough that he can see the top of the table. "That's perfect. Thank you."

He then starts shuffling the cards. "Have you ever played this before?"

"No, never. But I promise you, I'm a good student." She sits on the edge of the armchair, watching him shuffle the cards. Playing cards isn't something young ladies are supposed to do, so she's never shuffled a deck herself. It looks challenging.

"Well, it's not too hard to play," he says with a nod. "Each player gets five cards. The idea is to fill your hand with either a straight, in one suit, or a full house - a pair, and a set of three. For each turn you pick up a card - either from the pot or the deck, and you put one down, but if you're going to pick up from the pot, you can only pick up the one on top."

He pauses with the deck in his hand, ready do deal. "Did I go too fast?"

Five cards... wait, what is a straight? Or a full house? And what is a pot and how does it differ from the deck? Oh, dear.

"I'm afraid so. I do not know what the, ah, the winning hands are? I do know a pair or set of three are all the same number, but I do not know any of the rest. Or what a pot is either." She flashes him an embarrassed smile, fiddling with her fingers in her lap.

"Would you explain it? I promise you I can understand quickly."

He smiles a bit before nodding. "I can do that."

He turns the deck over in his hand before sorting through the cards and pulling out a set of hearts, eight to queen. "A straight is five cards of the same suit that are in the right numbered order. You can't skip numbers in between or have a club or a spade in there instead."

He then adds the cards back into the deck and reshuffles them, before starting to deal a hand. "Now, once we both have our cards, I'll place the deck here, and flip the top card." He does so, revealing the top card on the deck, before pointing to it with his finger. "This is the pot. You have to pick up a card at the beginning of each turn, but you can never have more than five cards in your hand at a time. So, at the end of your turn, you discard one card into the pot."

Christine has a look of concentration on her face as he explains and when she takes her cards, she looks them over and nods.

"I've got it now, I'm sure. Thank you."

She begins moving the cards around in her hand, reordering them and staring critically at two of them, knowing she'll have to get rid of them.

"Who goes first?"

"Since I dealt the cards, you can go first. We can swap for the next hand." He leans back on the lounge to start sorting his own cards, waiting for her to take her turn.

After considering her cards, she throws one away and chooses another from the deck. If this was poker and she was betting, she would automatically lose due to her terrible poker face. Once she sees her replacement card, she pouts because it's not close to what she wanted. Her eyes lift to watch Dean take his turn, wondering if he'll fare any better.

Dean leans up a bit to peer at what she put down, before picking up from the deck instead. He shuffles the cards around, before placing one back on the pile. He has a much better poker face, but he likes that she's so easy to read. So few people he knows are.

"How many tries do we have to get the cards we need?" Her fingers pinch one card she wants to throw away, but she can make it work if she doesn't have anymore chances left.

He shakes his head. "As many turns as you need before someone wins. We can take all the time in the world if we needed to."

"Oh, really? Goodness, I am glad to know that." And now she discards one card and picks a new one from the deck. This one pleases her more and she squirms a little in excitement as she puts her cards in order.

He smiles a bit, before going through the process himself. He picks up a card from the deck, studying it critically for a moment, before tossing it back into the pot. He, apparently, is not getting as lucky.

Of course, the next few cards she receives in exchange for those she's thrown away aren't much better and she's left nibbling on her thumbnail, trying to decide whether she should keep trying for a full house or try to get a set of three.

"My, this can be frustrating, can't it?"

He chuckles a bit before nodding. "It can take a little time. But that's part of the fun of games like this. You can take the time to talk to your opponent."

"Oh." Her face flushes ever so slightly and she ducks down her head to look at her hand. It was simple to ask him questions when he was on the sidewalk and she in her room, or earlier while she was trying to distract him from the pain, but it feels even more bold a thing to do now. In fact this whole situation is very much not what a young lady of marriageable age should be doing. Her mother or at least a female chaperone should be in here with her, but she can't ask the servants to hold off on their work to humor her.

She peeks up at him through her lashes, looking a little intrigued.

"Would you like to talk to me, Private Winchester?"

He smirks a bit at the flush of her cheeks - he can't help himself. As polite as he is, his ego demands at least that much. But he lets it fade almost instantly, turning his gaze back down to his cards again.

"Only if you wish to speak with me, Miss Chapel."

It seems he's putting it into her hands, letting her pursue him. She admits to herself that he intrigues her, so she can't help but continue.

"I think I would like that. Let's see, what should I ask?" She lets the question hover in the air as she selects a new card and begins rearranging her hand.

"Would you happen to have a sweetheart back home?" May as well get the big question out of the way first, right?

He smirks a bit at that, before shaking his head. "No. Nothing lengthy at any rate." Nothing that really felt right, the way it should. It's not as though his family had any kind of wealth - there weren't women beating down the door to be his wife. But there were small things - a child's idea of love.

His answer makes a fresh blush bloom on her cheeks and she raises her cards a bit to hide behind them. The handsome, single young man in her drawing room is making her all aflutter. She has to remind herself that he's a Yankee and shouldn't be delighting in the fact that he's unattached.

"But you have family to write to you while you are away. That's good."

He nods, taking his turn with the cards before leaning back to let her take her turn. "It can take some time for me to get their letters, but it is still good to hear from them, even if it is delayed."

"Oh? How long must you wait for each letter?" She threw away another card and picked up a new one. "It must be very hard, being away."

"A week, at least," he says with a nod. "Sometimes a little longer, depending on the weather and the condition of the roads. I know it doesn't seem like such a great stretch of time, but when you're used to speaking with someone every day ... " It adds up.

"Of course. Especially if you are very close." Not that she's close to anyone, but she has a yearning to be. Maybe someday she'll have that person and an hour apart will feel like an eternity.

Her eyes fall on her cards as she tries to decide whether three of a kind is better than anything he might have.

"If we think we have the cards we need, do we reveal them yet?"

He glances up and nods. "If you have the set you need, yes. You say gin and you put them down on the table." He's happy to take the distraction from talking about his family. Especially when he misses them as much as he does.

"All right." She shifts in her seat, clears her throat rather grandly, and says, "Gin!" Then she giggles and sets down three eights, glancing up at him to see if she's done it right.

He glances up a bit, before giving her a small smile. "Not quite. You need another pair to fill out the five cards."

Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an O-shape in surprise. Now she feels very silly for doing it incorrectly.

"Oh, dear, do I? Have I ruined my chances?" Quickly, she gathers her cards back up into her hand. "Could you perhaps pretend that you simply didn't see this?"

He nods before holding up a hand. "Just like it never happened. You can even take your turn again, if you like."

Oh, she likes him. It's completely unexpected, but she truly does. Her cheeks flush a little as she retakes her turn, discarding a card and receiving one just as worthless. She lifts her eyes to his, feeling shy now that he's been so generous when she was once so rude to him.

"Thank you. D'you need anything? Something to drink, perhaps?"

He pauses as he moves to take his turn, glancing briefly at the cards in his hand. "Some water would be good. If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all! I'll be right back." She leaves her cards face down on the table and moves from the room to the kitchen, where she has the cook fetch her a glass. A minute later she returns, offering it to him.

"Here you are."

He shifts his cards to the side to take it from her, with a smile. "Thank you." Once he has it steady in his hand, he takes a long sip. "And it's your turn."

She peeks at him from behind her cards as he sips to make sure the action isn't causing him any pain. But he tolerates it well and she finds herself admiring him all the more. But the game requires her attention and she selects another card, pouting at her failure to match up her two remaining cards so she can have gin.

"I do declare; I think the card I need has scurried away under the settee somewhere." It's punctuated with a slight huff of irritation.

He laughs a bit at that, before moving to take his own turn. "It'll come. Sometimes it's just a matter of having the right luck." Besides, the sooner the game is over, the sooner he's sure she'll probably move on and give him some time to rest. He's not sure he wants that quite yet, even if he probably should.

"What does this say of our luck, then, if neither of us have succeeded yet?" Christine exchanges another card and sighs. "And again, I'm without the card I need. We are through most of the deck now."

She's only frustrated because she wants to win. The thought that the end of the game should be the start of his rest hasn't yet occurred to her.

He glances down at the straight in his hand, and the one outlier card he hasn't quite given up yet. He considers for a moment, before picking up his card, and while it is not the one he needs, he doesn't discard it right away. Instead, he passes the one he's been hanging on to.

"Perhaps we just didn't realize what we already had."

"That must be it. I confused the rules earlier and I'm sure that's where I had it wrong and threw away what I should have kept." She'll have to be more cautious from now on. Taking her turn, she chooses the card he discarded and her face lights up as she sets down her cards.

"Gin! You had just what I needed."

He smiles a bit at that, before placing his cards down and pushing them back towards the center of the table. "I'm happy I could help."

She stares proudly at the cards. Her very first card game and she won! Luck was apparently on her side after all.

"I enjoyed myself, Private Winchester. I hope you did too?"

"I did," he says with a nod. "You may become quite the card shark yet."

"Oh, well, I don't know about that..." Blushing, she pats at her hair a little to distract herself from the prospect of becoming a fine card player. It's unbecoming of a lady to take too much delight in cards.

"Did you wish to rest now?"

He takes a deep breath and feels the wince as he pulls at his wound. "It would probably be for the best. It has been a long day."

"All right. Just allow me to clear this aside?" She stands, trying not to look too troubled at his wound. He probably would tell her not to fuss. She carefully moves the chair back into place, tugging and pulling until it's more or less there. Then she returns to the table to get it out of the way too.

Dean shifts to resettled on the settee, trying to get more comfortable. "Thank you, again, for helping me."

"I was happy to be of any kind of use." Her days are so monotonous now, and she hates feeling so powerless. The chance to do something has raised her spirits and she doesn't even care that she's helped someone from the other side. He didn't become injured in battle while pointing his gun at a son of the South. He was injured as a man in a city at its breaking point in some areas, and she can't feel guilty about aiding him.

He smiles again, before leaning back against the settee and closing his eyes. "I suppose I will see you in the morning?"

"Yes, you certainly will. I will want to see how you're healing." She folds her hands in front of herself as she looks him over before she's struck with a thought.

"Oh! Blankets. You need blankets, don't you?"

He smiles a bit at that before nodding. "A blanket would be good. Thank you."

Christine returns his smile and goes to fetch him one, needed to find a servant to help her get one out of a storage trunk. She shakes it out a little to make sure it doesn't smell unpleasant, and when she's sure it's fine she gathers it up in her arms and returns to him. As she approaches his form, she carefully shakes it open again and moves to kneel down beside him, drawing the blanket up and tucking it around him.

It's far too familiar a gesture, she knows, but she can't help herself. Part of her fears he'll tell her she's being foolish, like he knows what's in her heart better than she does, but all she can do is offer him an awkward smile.

"I hope this will be warm enough for you."

He actually doesn't mind the familiarity. It's what he needs, even though he knows on some level it's in appropriate, but it's nice to be cared for. It's far better treatment than he would get back at camp.

"I'm sure it will be fine, Miss Chapel."

"Then I shall see you in the morning. And of course I'll have a servant bring you fresh water for the night." She sits back on her heels, regarding him quietly for a moment.

"You're very brave, y'know. And to be here after all you've suffered with no complaints or ill will... well, you have a good heart."

He smiles softly at that, looking up at her for a moment. "It is kind of you to think so." Because sometimes, that isn't what it feels like. It feels like he's in the war for the wrong reasons and he doesn't know how to stop it.

All the same, he nods as he shifts to get more comfortable. "Goodnight, Miss Chapel."

"Goodnight to you too, Private Winchester."

She pulls herself to her feet and heads to the door, turning down the flame in the lamp until it putters out, then giving him one more look in the dark before she heads out, softly shutting the door behind her.

civil war au } { please leave the light on for me

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