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Casualties
Chapter One
Hannibal's blue eyes fluttered open. Where was he? He started to sit up and felt hands push him back down. Firmly, but gently. He still didn't know where he was. Or what was happening. He cast around, realized he was indoors – pain tugged at the back of his mind. He was injured. He didn't like where he was. He started to sit up again and a face came into focus. A young woman with dark hair.
The French put things back in focus. 'Nam. He was in 'Nam. Last remembered, he was in General Chow's Death Camp. Wherever he was now – this wasn't it. He'd been rescued somehow.
"Wh –" he cleared his throat. "Where are we?"
She put a finger to his lips and made a soothing noise as if to quiet a baby. "Ca va bien."
He moved her hand away with his own. "Parlez-anglais?"
"Oui," a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You are sick." She touched a hand to his forehead and smoothed back his soft hair that was beginning to turn silver prematurely. "We found you. You were lucky. Not many survived. I will take care of you."
Hannibal cast an eye at his surroundings. He wasn't in the hospital. Possibly a hut. A private residence. So it wasn't a military operation that had gotten him out – but a guerrilla force – hiding, biding their time, trying to help the Americans and French.
She held a cup to his lips and helped to some water. "Drink slowly, John."
"Hannibal," he replied. "Hannibal Smith."
She picked up the dog tags on his partly bare chest. "John."
"Mmmm... People call me Hannibal. It's a nickname."
She smiled again in response. He thought to himself the women had no place in war. Yet it was in their own country. How could they not be involved? He felt a wave of impatience sweep through him. What good was he, lying here? He tried to sit up again and her hand gripped his arm. "You are a bad patient!"
"Believe it, sweetheart." He muttered. Even in the state he was in, he won the brief struggle. He immediately wished that he hadn't. Pain shot through him suddenly and he gritted his teeth against it.
"Why are you doing this? Where will you go?" Frustration laced her tone. "You are safe. You need time to heal. Lay down."
Some part of his mind told him that she was right – but the other part – the stubborn part that was so much in charge of him that he hadn't broken, even under torture, made him lurch to his feet. She rose with him, distressed. She barely came up to his chin. "No!" She cried. "Down!"
He grabbed hold of her arms, gripped her strongly. "Where are we? I –" he swayed drunkenly. Closed his eyes against a wave of pain.
"Hannibal." She looked up at him. "You are safe."
"I –" his breath caught in an almost sob . He went down on his knees, nearly taking her with him. Her arms were around him suddenly. "Shhhh."
He buried his face in her shoulder, a hitch still his breathing.
"You're safe." She told him again. She helped him lay back down. "It is okay." He was shuddering.
"Yeah," he said softly, feeling vaguely like a confused child. "What's wrong with me?"
"You lack water. You lack food." She brushed his cheek fondly with the back of her hand. "You have bruises, you lack sleep."
Dehydration. Exhaustion. Contusions.
"You have too much heat."
Fever. Sunstroke. He wasn't sure what she meant.
"How many others did you save?" He asked.
"Five maybe six."
He gritted his teeth. "So few."
"You worry about you. You need to get better."
"Oh, okay mother." He replied with a half smirk.
She took his hand. "I think you need a mother now."
He squeezed it lightly. "Maybe I do."
Hannibal drew in a ragged breath and closed his eyes, the tension leaving his face a little. "I'm tired."
"Good. Medications make you sleep." She talked to him soothingly for a few minutes until he drifted off.