QUEENSTON, 1812

Footsteps thumped on the dirt, rustling the grass. He was among them, another ant following in the line. Muskets were raised and yells were lanced around the battlefield. Ready, aim, fire. Recoil. Reload. Shoot the redcoats. For freedom!

It was a cry that was taken up by all the men. He found himself repeating it, voice strong and full of conviction. For freedom! His eyes were wide and he slipped and ducked, a musket ball whistling by his head.

Cheering suddenly erupted from the men beside him. Brock is down! Brock is down! He cast his glance forward, yet the red-wearing soldiers opposing them did not retreat.

He leapt forward, his musket raised. Another cry. Then, as he pulled the gun to his eye and prepared to shoot, a sudden pain ripped his side.

He stumbled back, unprepared for the influx of red that threatened to blind his vision. His abdomen felt like something heavy and bluntly had pierced it. He dropped his gun and placed his hands on his wound, feeling stickiness coat his fingers.

Collapsing to the ground, he pulled at the grass with dirty fingers, aware that his jacket was becoming increasingly damp and sticking to his flushed skin.

He pulled himself over, trying to find some respite from the sounds of musketfire and the cries of freedom. His vision swam a deep red. His eyes, heavy-lidded, finally closed and he let himself drift away.

xxx.

Bright lights invaded his vision. He groaned, trying to black them out. All he wanted to do was sleep. A noise from beside him caught his attention – there was a rustling sound. He reached out for it, unaware if he was actually moving his arms, and emitted a soft groan.

Muted voices. He's awake. He shifted his head, trying to see who had spoken but there was nothing there. He tried to open his eyes, but they were firmly closed. He groaned again and murmured something under his breath. Had he said 'for freedom'? He couldn't tell.

Something gentle was touching his shoulder. An angel. It had to be. He had died and he was now in heaven. He opened his eyes once more and the white light confirmed it. He had died and gone to a better place.

He grunted and shifted his head to look at what was touching him. He saw a soft, pale, hand. An angel's hand, creamy and delicate. He kissed it gently, only to be surprised when it was suddenly yanked away.

The sudden movement caused him to jerk back. As soon as he had shifted his torso, the pain came flooding back and he nearly cried out, but managed to keep it to a soft groan. If he was in heaven, why did it still hurt?

He looked up and found himself staring into beautiful emerald eyes. They were so cold and frigid – an angel's critical gaze, he imaged. Something so beautiful could never look on a mere human with respect.

He took in the face – a defiant chin, beautiful features, and long curly brown hair. She was studying him intently, he realized with a start.

Looking her over once again, he took in the middle-class clothes and the bloody bandages on the table behind her. Realization dawned on him. "Where am I?" he asked.

"Queenston," she replied brusquely. "We found you after the battle and brought you here. It's my home – I'm taking care of you."

He frowned. "Just you?"

"No," she began, taking a step back and sitting on the chair by the couch where he was resting. "I live with my husband, Tom."

Shit. His wife? Did she think he was dead? "Juliet," he croaked weakly.

"Look," she said awkwardly. "I don't really know you at all, and – our countries are at war right now. I'm just here to take care of you, alright?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

Then he laid his head back down on the pillow. He meant to ask her more about what had happened, but his lids closed on their own accord and he drifted off into a deep slumber.

xxx.

When he woke up, the pain was back. It wasn't as bad as it had been before, but he still felt it like a hole in his side. After assessing his surroundings – like a good soldier and doctor – he checked to see if she was there.

She was.

"You've been out for a day," she whispered, and he wondered if the smile he saw playing on the corner of her lips was real.

He was about to reply when the pain throbbed and he took a sharp intake of breath.

"Let me change your bandages," she said, getting up from her chair and taking off the blanket that covered him.

He rested his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling, feeling her soft fingers lightly trace his abdomen as she pulled at the sticky linen. He winced as she removed it before sighing as she tied more on and renewed the pressure.

"Thanks," he murmured. Then – "What's your name?"

"Kate," she replied with a smile. "What's yours, American?"

He scoffed. "Jack Shephard. Are you a doctor or a nurse, or do you just take care of wounded soldiers a lot?"

"Tom – my husband, sorry if I already, yeah… uh, he's a doctor, so I've picked up some stuff from him over the years," he replied.

"So if he's a doctor, why are you taking care of me?" He had meant it to be a joke, but her eyes had flashed with pain as she looked away.

"He's busy a lot," she mumbled, staring out the window. Jack followed her gaze, seeing other houses nearby and revelling at the bright blue sky.

"Hard to believe it's almost winter," he commented.

Kate seemed glad to change the subject. "Yeah… Anyways, I know you just slept for a day, but you should probably get some more rest. I have to go do the laundry now anyways."

He chuckled at the image of her doing the laundry – she seemed far too rebellious. Jack watched her as she left the room, taking in the natural way her curls swung down across her back. Then, when she was gone, he drifted back into slumber.

xxx.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. Jack had just woken up, and she was sitting by his side with a bowl of something-or-other in her lap.

"Like I just got shot," he replied sarcastically, struggling to sit up. She obviously saw the pain he was dealing with, since her eyes widened.

"I made you something," Kate offered shyly. "Soup and crackers. I eat it whenever I'm not feeling too good. Here."

She offered him the bowl and spoon and he took it, seeing that the crackers were arranged on the side of the dish. Jack gulped it down eagerly, enjoying the taste of food other than the water and bland meat she had previously provided.

"Thanks," he said with a smile. She smiled back and their eyes met. For a moment, neither party could look away. Then Kate looked down with a sigh.

When she looked back up, her eyes were weary. "Jack, there's something you need to know…"

"What?" he asked, scraping his spoon along the bottom of the dish to pick up the rest of the soup.

"In the battle you were in… Isaac Brock died. One of the best generals in the war. The town knows I'm taking care of you… they're trying to decide what to do with you," she said slowly.

Jack frowned. "So you think they're going to be harsh on me because Isaac Brock died? Even though – wait, who won the battle?" He had thought because they had been Brock go down, their side had won, but…

"We won. Well, the British Empire did. I don't know if I'm British or Canadian." Kate seemed to be talking to herself when she mumbled the last part. "But yes, I do think that. Some of the town council want to come here and meet you."

Jack tried to smile and she tried to return it, but he could see that her heart wasn't into it. "It'll be okay," he murmured.

Kate shook her head. "I'm scared, Jack. I don't want them to hurt you."

Genuinely touched by her concern, he smiled, this time a real one as he looked into her beautiful green eyes. Jack offered his hand to her, fingers outstretched.

"It'll be okay, Kate. I have your back. I just need to know – do you have mine?" His eyes were pleading as he offered her all he could possibly give – yet he knew there was nothing he wouldn't let her take.

Kate smiled and took his hand, sending an electric shock coursing through his body. "Yeah, Jack. I have your back."

Alright! :) seeing as it's chapter ten, i figured i'd give you all an author's note or something, for a couple of reasons.

oo1. well, first off, i'm going on vacation for about a week so, so i won't be able to update during that time - but i will be able to come up with all kinds of jatey scenarios for future chapters (and more jex?).

oo2. i reply personally to all my reviews but i don't get a chance to do that for story alerts, so i wanted to thank everyone who added this to their story alerts. it means a lot to me, guys.

oo3. one tenth of the way through this fic. man, a hundred is a really high number, and i hope i can do it. still, it feels good knowing i've made some progress.

oh, and i know i generally don't explain my settings, but yeah. queenston is a town in what was lower canada and is now ontario. this is the war of 1812. i figure you guys can figure out the rest.

thanks for everyone's support :)

leave a review!