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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"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.

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