A/N: I got sucked into the fandom, what can I say?
The exhaustion weighs heavy on him, visible to all who bother to see it.
He enjoys his work – saving lives and studying the human body is beneficial to both parties, after all – but the newest flood of patients from the battlefield and refugees from the camps has left him completely swamped, taking him much too far out of his comfort zone by surrounding him with hysterical patients and worried family members.
He loves people – he really does – he just doesn't like them bothering him all at the same time.
The latest survivor – a man with half of his left completely missing and losing blood at a tremendous rate, half-consciously murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like the name 'Rebecca' – he personally sees loaded into the back of a truck, ensuring that he will be taken to a far better equipped field hospital than this one.
As it drives off, he sighs silently and takes off his helmet, wiping absent-mindedly at the sweat that had been drying on it, looking at the hum of activity around him, a bit reluctant to dive back in yet.
It's the middle of the night – or rather, the beginning of the morning; it has to be past midnight by now – but everyone is still milling about in a panicked rush, not stopping to rest until they are on the verge of unconsciousness.
The war is practically over – though nobody knows it, V-E Day is only a week and a half away and most of the camps have been liberated now – but the death throes of the Third Reich have left far more casualties behind than should be allowed.
A new batch of survivors from one of the camps has just come in, so he takes a breath, blinking slightly to will the heavy feeling from his limbs, and walks towards where he'd heard they were taken, not bothering to put the helmet back on. It was too tight anyway; a distraction from his work.
He's approaching the refugees as quickly as his fatigued limbs will carry him when he catches a glimpse of her.
A young woman, perhaps in her early to mid-twenties, with golden hair that shines even in the muted lights of the street. She is wrapped in a long brown coat to ward off the brisk cold, but she seems more concerned with the baby in her arms than the chill. She is smiling down at the child kindly, lips curved upward into a friendly smile that proved far more than capable of capturing a man's heart.
He freezes mid-step, practically awestruck at her simple beauty. She wears no make-up, of course – no woman has the time or care to apply it nowadays – but just the sight of her, from at least twenty feet away is enough to nearly make him step back.
He's not a people person – never really was one, but it's only gotten worse since he found out about it – so it should come as no surprise that he has no real words to express exactly how it is he feels at the moment she looks up and sees him, smile still in place on her face.
She looks a bit surprised, but doesn't seem bothered by his (actually rather rude) stare. "Are you a doctor?" she asks, turning to face him fully and unknowingly making it that much harder for him to breathe.
He blinks at the action, stunned, but luckily a part of his brain that isn't a complete idiot kicks in and makes him walk forward to meet her as she holds up the child in her arms for his inspection.
"This child was just recovered from one of the camps; he seems to be in perfect health, miraculously!" she says, utterly overjoyed by the news if her grin is anything to go by. She holds the baby out for him to take, which he does mutely, still unable to tear his gaze from her for a moment.
Somehow, he manages to make himself focus enough to look down at the tiny bundle in his arms. The child stares up at him curiously, wiggling its tiny arms and making quiet squeaks of protest against the loud noises all around him. His right arm bears a string of numbers upon it, tattooed in dark ink – and he wishes more than anything that he could take the mark away, but unfortunately, tattoo removal surgery wouldn't come about for nearly a century – but aside from that, he is perfectly alright. No bruises or scratches that need tending, no breaks that need setting. It is miraculous indeed – the odds of the child getting out of the camp with no injuries whatsoever are at least a thousand to one – but the world seems determined to prove him wrong today.
His eyes trail upward back to the young woman, who beams at him proudly, as if it is her own son he now holds – and for a moment, his mind shudders forcefully at the thought that she is taken, married and off-limits according to some other man – but before he can begin making excuses to leave her presence, she says, "He'll be alright, won't he? I found him with another group of refugees, but none of them knew who his mother was."
His brain is able to kick-start itself into action at those words (inwardly he cheers in joy at the lack of attachment) "He should be just fine. I can't see any signs of breaks or sprains, and he and all of the other children are going to be taken to the hospital on the next trip," he assures her, managing his usual distant half-smile.
She grins at him widely, making his heart skip a beat. "Oh, thank God! I didn't know what I would do if I couldn't find his mother!" she exclaims, pressing a hand to her heart. She lifts her hands – inwardly his thoughts scatter a bit in panic – but she only slides them under his so that she can take back the baby she had dutifully given him.
He hands the child over without complaint, though when she steps back he is tempted to step forward, savoring the warmth of her skin, but he squashes the urge quickly and moves away slightly, lest his body move of its own accord.
"Thank you, doctor!" she says sincerely, eyes sparkling happily.
His mouth is as dry as the Sahara, but he manages a nod of acknowledgement.
She starts turning away, most likely in search of a competent person who can actually manage a conversation – or perhaps someone who knows when the children will be carted off to the safer areas – but his mind suddenly starts working properly again and he calls, "Ah, miss!"
She spins back, crystal blue eyes a bit wide – she hadn't expected to speak with him anymore, apparently – and for a moment they stand there in silence, one expectant and the other desperately searching for something to say.
Finally – because for some reason his brain just cannot work properly – he settles on asking, "What's your name?"
She blinks for a moment, obviously not expecting such a question, before smiling once more. "Abigail," she answers.
Abigail. She who gives joy.
The name suited her.
"And what's yours, doctor?" she asks, throwing him for a loop – as scattered as his thoughts are, he'd forgotten how abrupt his question was when he had not introduced himself first.
"Morgan," he answers, making sure he gives a friendly smile, "Henry Morgan, ma'am."
"Henry," she says, and for a moment he swears he hears a song from an angelic choir.
"It's nice to meet you, Dr. Morgan."
A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I'll see you all tomorrow!
~Persephone