Warnings: blood

Tags: Mike/Marco, historical AU, pre-slash/possibly romantic friendship

A/N: I read the Shaara novel 'Gone for Soldiers' about the Mexican-American War and that was all I needed. I did my best to get all the little details in. The Mexican-American War is very interesting in terms of history to me because it was one of the last major conflicts before the CSA's secessions and the subsequent Civil War, and many of the major players in the Mexican-American War were also major players in the Civil War. Lee and Jackson and Longstreet and Pickett fought side-by-side with the likes of Grant and Scott and Sherman and (ick) McClellan. There were also a lot of backdoor politics going on, moreso even than usual, and so I just find it a very interesting war. Just wanted to post this little nugget while 'Oh There You Are' is on hiatus.

The young lieutenant first caught Captain Lee's attention at the Battle of Cerro Gordo, where he was part of Steptoe's artillery. Many others lodged complaints the whole way up the hill called Atalaya, and they weren't silly complaints. It was no easy task to haul artillery all the way up such a hill. Some of the junior officers seemed to think such a task was beneath them… but not the young lieutenant. No, he performed his duty without complaint. I don't believe I heard a single word from him except to say 'yessir' or 'no, sir'. That was the sort of man Captain Lee liked.

He saw the young man there in Puebla while they rested and recuperated. The lieutenant was fresh from West Point, having just graduated in 1846, had not been out for a full year yet. He was tall, over six feet by a couple inches, with mouse-brown hair, very blue eyes, and a handsome, clean-shaven face. Captain Lee did not know him personally, only knew of him what others had said. Apparently, he'd been an outstanding student at West Point, excelling in all his courses but particularly engineering, despite not having a formal education. By all accounts, he was a quiet young man all through the Academy, just as he was during Cerro Gordo, speaking only when spoken to, though he occasionally got into arguments with instructors when he felt it imperative to make a point.

"Excuse me, lieutenant," Lee asked, approaching him, "May I speak with you for a moment?"

His blue eyes were wide, as if perhaps he thought he'd done something wrong, but he answered, "Yessir," and followed Lee. They walked to a small corral where some of the junior officers kept their horses.

"You're one of Steptoe's officers, correct?"

"Yessir."

"You were there helping those three big guns up Atalaya."

"Yessir."

They were quite right. I have never known such a quiet lieutenant.

"I noted many of the young officers had several complaints in regards to taking those guns up that hill."

"Yessir."

"You did not complain."

"No, sir."

"You certainly had the right to complain. Strenuous work, it was."

"No more strenuous than any other work, sir, and it was the duty I was assigned. No point in complaining when there was nothing that could've been changed, sir."

Now we're getting somewhere.

"Where are you from, lieutenant?" Lee asked, changing tack, "What did you do before attending West Point?"

"Oh, I'm from a little town in New Jersey, in the southwestern part of the state, sir. It's fairly marshy, but there's enough dry land to raise some cows for beef and milk, raise some hogs, grow some useful crops."

"So you're a farmer, then?"

"Yessir, a farmer and a soldier."

"You and many others in this Army. Tell me, lieutenant, do you like the artillery?"

"Yessir, I like it well enough. I can put my skills to use in the artillery."

"Your skills?"

"Yessir. I-I don't brag, sir, I'm not that sort of person, but I was quite near the top of my class, particularly when it came to my courses on engineering. I believe, sir, that applying engineering ideas to artillery work is not only useful but imperative. The siege of Vera Cruz was a good example of this. I felt that was excellently done, an incredible piece of soldiering, sir."

If I didn't know better, I'd say he was trying to flatter me. He did not seem that sort of person, however, indeed seemed humble and very complimentary.

"I only asked because we have need of good engineers in this Army, men who understand how things are built, how they work," Lee explained, "You are, without a doubt, one of the finest artillerymen I have ever seen. Your gun barely missed a target on El Telegráfo that day."

The lieutenant did not look at him, color rising in his cheeks, instead occupying himself with stroking the neck of a handsome gelding with a spotted rump, the bay horse nickering happily at the attention. Yes, very humble. He stepped closer to the lieutenant, saying more quietly, "General Scott had entrusted me to take care of several important missions during this campaign. There is much reconnaissance to be done to properly know our enemy and how to defeat him. It is my opinion that you would be an asset to these operations."

The blue eyes were wide again. He blinked several times, as if he didn't quite understand what had just been said to him. Lee waited patiently.

"Sir, I-I'm-… I am flattered, sir, that you would be so confident in my abilities… but I'm not sure I could abandon my duties with Steptoe," he replied.

"You would abandon nothing. You are a soldier, after all. It is your duty to go where you are assigned. Why would you be here in Mexico had you not been assigned to be here? Would you not rather be home on your farm in New Jersey? I know I would rather be in Virginia."

"Yessir, that's true, I suppose…"

"I'm not asking you to abandon anything. I am merely asking if you would be interested in these special missions."

"Well, sir, that does-… such a duty does seem quite… exciting," he replied carefully.

"That is good to hear. I do hope to work with you soon, Lt. Stoker."

Lee shook Stoker's hand and headed back for the staff headquarters. He had some work to do if he was going to get Stoker transferred.

xXxXx

Stoker stumbled into the nearby church, clutching his side. He'd been minding his own business, just exploring a bit of Mexico City, having just left a conversation with two of his fellow 1846 graduates and good friends, George and Thomas. He heard the shot at the same time as he felt the sharp, burning pain in his left side. The shock of the pain sent him tumbling to the ground. Somewhere to hide… He looked around, prayed he would find someone to take him in, found a church not far away. Sanctuary… they'll have to give me sanctuary… won't they?

He looked around the inside of the small church. It was nowhere near as grand as the one in Puebla or the one closer to the National Palace. This was a simple church for simple people. Stoker had seen plenty like it over the course of his life, especially growing up around so many Quakers. (One could hardly compare any Catholic church to a Quaker meetinghouse, however.)

"Quien está allí?"

Stoker looked up, having sat in a pew to rest. A young priest approached him, recognizable in his black frock and white collar and crucifix. He wore a moustache on his handsome face, which was a darker brown but rather light for an indio. Stoker couldn't quite tell if the priest was angry or concerned. He spoke again, "Quién eres?" now within a few feet of Stoker. The dark brows contracted, confusion taking over his expression.

"You are yanqui?"

His English was accented but not heavily so. Stoker nodded and held up his bloody hand, saying thickly, "P-Please… I-I-I've been shot. I ne-need help."

He worried for a long moment the priest would not help him, would turn him out on the street, would hand him over to someone who would kill him or worse.

"You come with me, yanqui," the priest told him, "I will help you, though a doctor would be better."

"I'm afraid I don't have the time to-to look for a doctor just now, Father. You'll have to do."

The priest made a quiet noise but said nothing, instead helping Stoker to his feet and into a back room. Does he live here? They weren't poor quarters, on par with the simplicity of the church, with rough-hewn furniture and hand-woven blankets and indio pottery. He sat Stoker down on the bed and reached for the buttons of his coat, but Stoker flinched.

"Please, I need to remove the jacket and shirt to see the wound and do treatment. I swear on the Holy Word of God, I will not harm you, yanqui. Please… déjeme ayudarle."

"O-Of course… I must apologize, Fa-Father. I-I don't know what ca-came over me…"

"You are frightened. That is only natural," he said calmly, "especially in a time of war. You have been shooting at people that look like me for quite a time now. Someone you have been at war with now has you alone when you are wounded and- well, it is only natural. I, too, would be afraid if I were wounded and had only yanquis to seek refuge with. Some of you are not too friendly to us indios."

Stoker remained quiet as the priest carefully divested him of his jacket and shirt. Gooseflesh broke out over his skin, now almost cold after being trapped under wool for so long in such heat. There was a clean hole through the coat, but the white shirt bore a large, jagged, bloodstained gash. Stoker chanced a look at his side; his stomach rolled. The priest clucked his tongue.

"I am thinking it looks worse than it is, yanqui. A bullet glanced your side here, cut through the skin and the fat, maybe some of the muscle… but I would like to ask for help."

"Whose help?"

"A nun. Sor Fidela Asunción. She knows the old tricks for healing. She will help."

"Yes… yes, send for her… please, i-it hurts, Father."

The priest disappeared but came back a few minutes later, explaining, "I sent a girl for her. She should arrive within the hour at the latest. Her convent is not far away. If you'd like, I can start. It won't be comfortable, but I can pour some alcohol over the wound to clean it. To tell the truth, Sor Fidela will more than likely do the same when she arrives. It may be better to get it over with now."

Stoker looked up into the dark brown eyes. Dark and warm… like the fresh-tilled spring soil of home… He nodded. The priest retrieved a bottle of clear liquor and set it by the bed.

"I am going to take off your belt for you to bite down on. This… This will hurt quite a bit, I'm afraid."

He nodded, moving his arm to allow the priest access to his buckle. The length of leather slipped through the loops with ease.

"Sh-Should I move? I don-don't wanna ruin your blanket."

"I can wash the blanket, yanqui. I want you to be comfortable as you can be. Here… bite down."

Stoker was not prepared for the painful burn of the alcohol. He felt as though his teeth would tear through the leather of his belt with how hard he bit down. He screamed around it, his eyes squeezed shut. A finger probed the wound, causing him to cry out again, presumably trying to clean out any debris. There was a long moment that Stoker was in terrible pain, a moment that felt like an eternity, before he realized the finger had stopped prodding. A warm hand was settled over Stoker's shivering flank, stroking gently, speaking softly and soothingly. He felt the fingertips fluttering along his ribs, helping to even out his breathing. The belt was carefully removed from between his teeth. He finally opened his eyes, looking up at the priest, the blurriness of his sight creating a halo around him.

"I'm sorry I had to hurt you, but it was necessary in order to help you."

"It's alright, Father, I-I understand… sometimes you have to hurt to help… happens all the time."

"Sor Fidela will be here soon. I promise. Yanqui, you will tell me if you need anything."

He gazed up at the handsome young priest, dark eyes full of concern. A curious warmth bloomed in Stoker's chest.

"I-… I should like to know your name," he said quietly, "so that I may thank you properly."

The priest smiled, shyly it seemed, and replied softly, "Me llamo es Marco Antonio López de Zárate. I am simply called Padre Marco by most. Would you care to return the favor by giving me your name, yanqui?"

"Lieutenant Michael William Stoker… mostly my friends call me Mike or Michael."

"Michael… that is a good name… like the angel. En español, we say Miguel. I would be honored if you would allow me to address you as such."

"If you'd like, Father Marco-… uh, Padre Marco. I don't mind."

The door to the living quarters opened. Sor Fidela was a middle-aged woman with dark indio skin. She and Padre Marco spoke in rapid Spanish Stoker couldn't begin to follow. Sor Fidela approached, carefully reaching out to examine his wound. She spoke again, and Padre Marco translated, "She wants to look at what has been done so she can understand how to fix it. She is a most excellent nurse, knows the old remedies. She is the daughter of healers, and she has been taught their ways. Now, God gives her healing more power than the old gods ever did. You must be still and believe in the Healing Power of God, and all will be well."

Of course I believe God will heal. He brought me here, brought me where He knew I would find aid. Stoker did not say any of that, however, only resigned himself to the imminent pain. Sor Fidela spoke again, and Padre Marco left his side but returned shortly with an armful of items. These included jars of liquid and paste and some white cloth. The nun appraised what he brought while Padre Marco sat down on the bed beside Stoker, waiting patiently for her to speak once more.

"I am sorry, but Sor Fidela says the healing will be painful. There is no way around this. If it is any consolation, she tells me the wound is not serious. Are you ready?"

"Reckon I'm as ready as I'll ever be, Padre. Don't suppose I can have my belt to bite down on again?" Stoker responded, "Don't wanna break my teeth."

Padre Marco dutifully placed the leather belt between Stoker's teeth and whispered, "You are a soldier, Miguel. I trust you not to lash out against Sor Fidela during her ministrations, but she has asked me to hold your legs down as a precaution, to help keep you still. You understand, yanqui?"

Stoker nodded, taking the blanket in his fists. A warm weight settled over his legs, holding them down, strangely comforting. His side felt like it was on fire. He screamed again, tensed again, the pain flaring up in his abdomen. It throbbed violently until it became too much to bear, and he slipped into darkness. When he woke next, Sor Fidela was gone, and the pain in his side wasn't quite as bad. Padre Marco sat by him on the bed, singing quietly in a language that sounded even more foreign than Spanish. He sat framed by the window, by the fiery light of the setting sun. I may have the name of an angel, but it is he who looks like one… and sounds like one.

"What is it that you sing of, Padre?" Stoker asked, his voice rough.

"It is a song the missionaries used to convert the native people of Mexico," he replied softly, "It is a song of the beauty of Holy Mary and the Glory of God's creation. I do not know if it has a proper name… I think en ingles you would call it something, but I could not translate it from the Nahuatl."

"I think it sounded lovely, though I don't know what it means. The language is incredible."

"That is kind of you to say. For many years, the Spanish tried to keep us from speaking Nahuatl, wanted us to be obedient, but some of the Aztec nobility were brought into that of the Spanish, like my family, and they managed to help keep it alive."

"So… you're nobility? You're rich?"

"My family has wealth, but I do not. I am the youngest of five sons. Even if I desired wealth and title, it would pass to four brothers first. However, I found my calling early in my youth. I joined the priesthood as soon as I was able. Mi mama wished me go to La Basílica de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, but I wished to serve a smaller church, one where people don't have a magnificent church of marble and gold but are still blessed with faith in God."

"Most often it's the people with the least material wealth that have the most faith," Stoker said.

"Yes, I suppose it would be true everywhere. In any case, my family's wealth was useful in getting me good schooling. I have learned Latin and English and French, and those are in addition to Spanish and Nahuatl."

"My, you are educated. I wish I could say the same. My family were all farmers. We didn't have money for me to go to school proper 'til I got to West Point. That's our military academy. Learned how to shoot artillery, though. That I can do well."

"We received two very different educations, Miguel."

"That we have, Padre Marco."

"You must rest now, Miguel. You have had a hard day, and some rest will do you well. Tomorrow, I will take you back to your Army. I am sure they are missing a skilled officer like you. Do you have friends who are missing you, perhaps? Men you went to this West Point with?" Padre Marco asked.

"Yes… I know my friend George is wondering where I am, cheeky fella though he is. He's a very good friend, George Pickett, a much better friend than he was a cadet. Thomas is no doubt concerned, too. I'm sure he's praying for me, is concerned for my well-being. Now, he is a good man. I get the feeling you would like him. He is a supremely faithful man, a true believer… though he is Protestant."

Padre Marco laughed quietly, saying, "I'm sure I would like him in any case, particularly if he is like you. I did not think yanqui soldiers would be so kind to our city. Obviously, not all yanquis have been kind. There have been reports of attacks and rapes, though I know these are not the norm."

"General Scott has ordered harsh punishments for any soldier who attacks a civilian," Stoker told him, "None of the generals condone such abhorrent behavior. No good officer should. Though, truthfully… there is much that's disturbed me through this war. I do not enjoy war, Padre Marco… not one bit."

The priest put down the mending he'd been working on and shifted closer to Stoker, his dark eyes full of concern and curiosity. He asked quietly, "Then why become a soldier at all, Michael?"

Something warm and happy fluttered in Stoker's chest at the priest using his proper English name, at his moving closer, at the look in his eyes. He replied, "For me, there were only two ways to receive an education, a collar or a cannon. Was it not the same choice for you? I confess to you that I didn't think myself capable of leading a flock, so I chose to lead soldiers instead. I-… Really, I studied engineering at the Academy. I wished to build things. In this war, I have become a destroyer. My cannon cut down so many men, over and over-…"

Tears sprang into his eyes, and his lips trembled as he was struck by an overwhelming sadness. Padre Marco moved even closer, resting a soothing hand on his bare shoulder. Stoker spoke again, his voice breaking, "I-I have seen such aw-awful sights in this war… such horrible things. I have seen men I know cut down by bullets and artillery, and I was angry for them. I was angry they were killed in th-this war, angry it had been them an-and not someone else, someone I didn't know, didn't have to grieve for… preferably the enemy. I-I set m-my guns so they would cause the most damage to stone an-and flesh… Padre, I wan-wanted to kill people-"

"Hush, mi amigo… Michael, you must not do this to yourself. This was a war, and you are a soldier. In war, soldiers must do as they are told… which is to kill as many of the enemy as he can. If it's God's judgment you worry about, do not. He forgives all soldiers who only do their duty and feel remorse."

"It's not His judgment which concerns me at present," he replied, locking eyes with Padre Marco.

Padre Marco took his hand from Stoker's shoulder, instead taking his hand in both of his own, edged closer still, whispered, "I also forgive soldiers who only do their duty… especially those who feel remorse for having done so. It is my duty to forgive… it is my pleasure to forgive. You don't even need to ask."

A tear slipped down Stoker's cheek, and Padre Marco reached out to wipe it away, his palm lingering on Stoker's cheek. He murmured, "Please, Michael… you ought to sleep now. Sleep…"

He felt the press of warm, chapped lips on his forehead as exhaustion finally got the better of him. It was nearing midday when he woke, hot sunlight pouring in through the window.

"Oh, bueno. It is good to see you awake, yanqui," Padre Marco stated, "I was going to wake you soon if you did not do so yourself. I am thinking we ought to return you to your Army now. Surely your comrades miss you."

"Poor George probably took me for dead and has already delivered my eulogy. Always has been very dramatic that way. I'm sure it was lovely, though… and he'll deny it every step of the way."

Padre Marco smiled, helped him up, helped him dress, explained, "I have a burro I use to get around to the people. Do you think you are fit to ride?"

"I suppose so, but I think it would look rather silly, a priest leading me on a donkey."

"We can make it look better. I can bandage you up some more, if you want your injuries to look more impressive."

"I think I can walk, Padre."

"I do not agree. You should not allow your pride to do you more harm."

The look on the priest's face told Stoker he wasn't going to win this argument. He sighed, "Fine, I'll ride the donkey… but I would like to walk as we approach the Army."

"Whatever is your wish, yanqui. Come, vamos, Michael…"

Stoker hadn't originally thought he'd strayed so far from the Army territory, but it took an hour or so for them to return. Padre Marco was very good at checking on him, making sure he was comfortable, wasn't in severe pain. The journey tired him, though, short as it was. By the time the Army guards came into view, Stoker found himself unable to care about what anyone thought of him. He only wanted to sleep again, a fog rising up in his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. He tried to focus on Padre Marco, on the friendly warmth at his side.

"Mike! Mike Stoker!"

A young man with a mess of blond curls came running over, a big grin on his handsome face.

"Hi, George…"

"Why, Mike, we certainly took you for dead!" Pickett told him, "Wherever have you been? I hope you have a good story or two to tell about your adventures."

"Get me to the hospital, and I'll tell you all about it."

"You do look rather worse for wear. May I inquire as to the identity of your acquaintance?"

"See, Padre, like I said, very dramatic," Stoker said, "George, this is Padre Marco. Padre, this is my friend and colleague, George Pickett. We were in the same class at West Point."

They greeted each other cordially, and Padre Marco stated, "Please, señor, I would like to accompany Michael into your hospital, if it is possible. I have invested much time and care into keeping him well after his, ah, adventure, as you call it."

"I find that more than fair. Follow me, Padre."

The Army doctors fussed over Stoker briefly while Padre Marco explained Sor Fidela's healing process. When they determined Stoker had been satisfactorily taken care of, they set him up on a cot behind a curtain, close to his friend, James 'Pete' Longstreet, who'd been wounded in the battle and was still healing. Padre Marco came to sit with him, smiling quietly.

"I-… It is time for me to go, yanqui."

"Can't you stay a while longer, Padre Marco?" Stoker asked, his heart sinking.

The priest shook his head sadly, replied, "I cannot. I must return to my flock, to my church. I have done all I can, I am afraid, and my duty to you has unfortunately ended. You are back with your Army."

His dark eyes were very sad, filled with a longing Stoker had never seen before. Something twisted painfully in his chest. He took one of Padre Marco's hands in his own, twined their fingers, gripped tight. A warm, rough palm cupped his cheek, and Padre Marco brought his face close to Stoker's.

"No tenga triste, Michael," the priest whispered gently, "No tenga miedo. I know we will be together again one day, though I do not know when that day will come, only that it will… perhaps one day we will not be bound by honor and duty to go away from one another. Will you promise to write to me, yanqui?"

"Yes… Yes, I'll write as often as possible, Padre Marco, however often you wish me to."

"As often as you can… and I hope you will feel comfortable enough to simply call me Marco."

Stoker nodded dumbly, and the handsome brown face came minutely closer. His heart thumped inside his chest, his lips parting slightly, his hand gripping Padre Marco's a little tighter. The priest continued, "I wish for you to simply call me Marco when you tell me of your life, of all your hopes and dreams, of your hardships and your joys…"

"It will all be hardship, I'll miss you so."

He smiled sadly at Stoker, tears sitting in the dark eyes. Stoker felt a thumb stroking over his cheekbone.

"Goodbye, Michael, mi nuevo amigo… mi querido amigo… I pray we meet again."

Warm, chapped lips pressed to his forehead. Padre Marco pulled back, Stoker's eyes following him. Warm, chapped lips pressed to his own, chaste but lingering longer than propriety dictated. His eyes slipped shut, his hand covering Padre Marco's on his cheek, holding it there so he would never leave. Please, I don't want him to leave… When they parted, Stoker watched a single tear slip down Padre Marco's cheek. The priest whispered, "Adios, Michael Stoker," and left the hospital, leaving Stoker feeling curiously alone even as his friends joined him to hear his stories.