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

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

He doesn't see it coming.

He should have. He's a soldier, he's trained for these things. He should have expected that after so long of being occupied, the citizens of New Orleans would start striking back. There's no reason why they wouldn't pick off Union soldiers seen on their own. Dean had gotten complacent. Gotten sloppy. And now he was probably going to die before he could even make it back to his unit.

His hand stays pressed to his side as he continues to stumble up the street, trying to keep himself mobile as best he can. He hurts, everywhere from the beating he had taken and the blood is still leaking through his fingers. He's not going to make it. His parents, brother, they may be prepared for him to die in the heat of battle. He doesn't think they would appreciate hearing that he was killed by being jumped on the street.

He trips on a crack in the pathway, pitching forward into a nearby fence post with a pained groan. He tries to push himself back to his feet again, but he can't. His body drops to the ground, slumping against the fence as he does, trying to catch his breath. Things are starting to get hazy around the edges, but he still thinks that he can make out the faint sound of footsteps.

"Help me," he manages to whisper, unsure if he's talking to anyone at all. "Please."

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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.

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