Disclaimer: I own nothing.
London, England
Winter, 1915
The clink of her glass against his rings like a clear bell on a sunny day.
After he had left the hospital, he had gone back to his house and signed the crumpled sheets of paper that still lay on the table next to his palette, next to the half finished painting of his last battle, of the night all this had begun. He had signed the sheet and felt as though he had signed himself away to that night again.
And to many more like it.
As soon as he had posted his application for the War Artist programme, he'd found the first pub around the corner and gone in. The morphine from that morning still coursed through him but its effects had faded a while ago, the pain in his arm and the helplessness in his heart returning to him in a rush, filling in the spaces that had been numbed by the medicine. He had only expected to drink alone in silence, let the weight of the day drown in the liquid in his glass.
He hadn't expected to see her.
Emma.
Through the small crowd in the tavern and the dim light, he had spotted her immediately. His heart, though at the moment, a sad, helpless thing had beat just a bit faster when he had. Her hair was hidden under a hat, but unable to hide the loose curls of blonde escaping it. She sat slumped over the bar, her hand clutching her glass, her head bowed above it. She was dressed in mens' clothes, he had realised. Breeches and a loose coat meant to hide her and though he had sensed that perhaps she did not desire company, he hadn't been able to stop himself from going up to her.
Ready to back away at the slightest sign of discomfort, he had first immediately regretted disturbing her, even as he had sat down beside her, even as he had wanted to soothe whatever it was that hurt her. But he had been glad that she had accepted his request, glad that she had read what he had hoped his eyes and his words had told her.
That all he wants is to not be alone.
Now as he looks at her sitting beside him, he isn't sure what it is about her that makes him feel this way. Perhaps it is because he is seeing something beautiful after all this time. Perhaps it is the colours of her, gold and green like a field of daffodils, so very different from the stormy blues and blinding reds of his dreams. Perhaps it is just because when he sees her, he does not think of blood and broken bones, empty beds and empty smiles.
Oh! Oh! Oh! it's a lovely war,
What do we want with eggs and ham
When we've got plum and apple jam?
The sound of men singing at the piano get louder with every line, their voices rising in a cacophony of tuneless shouting for the final verse of the song.
His eyes leave her to find them. They stand holding drinks, arms around one another, singing about glories and heroism and god help him, he wants to shake every one of them. Young and bare faced, their eyes betray their age, naive and full of a kind of desperate hope, a longing to do something.
He shakes his head in wonder at how well the world has convinced these boys that the war was their one chance for to do it, their one chance for greatness. How well the world had not allowed for anything else to be.
As he turns back to his drink he finds her looking at him, her eyes searching his, scanning for something and finding it as she nods softly at him, her mouth curving into a knowing smile. As if she has found the reflection of her own thoughts in his.
It is the tiniest curving up of her mouth, her eyes twinkling softly as the green of them seems to shine in the golden light of the pub. He files the moment away in his mind, his paint stained fingers already itching to somehow capture this moment, to hold on to this woman, this smile, these eyes that soothe his troubled heart like so little has been able to.
To hold on to this silent moment of comfort and solidarity.
The sounds of the men singing by the piano fall away as they scatter to find drinks and other sources of entertainment and he and Emma continue to sit in silence, occasionally taking a sip from their drinks but mostly just sitting with one another, allowing the warmth of the other at their side reassure them of something they couldn't place.
Fifteen minutes pass and then a half hour and Killian feels himself sinking into his seat, his mind drifting soft and heavy upon waves of thoughts that feel warm, steering safely away from anything that would pull him out of this happy silence. He watches Emma's hand resting on the counter as Leroy comes to take away their glasses to refill. He watches her fingers, long and thin and bare of jewellery resting next to his own calloused, larger hand still wearing traces of his work last night, shadows of blues and purples staining the tips of his fingers.
Eventually she finishes the last of her drink and stands up. The warmth of her disappears from his side as she moves away and he feels his heart jump as he feels her warmth move behind him instead, her hand on his shoulder.
It is a slight pressure, a squeeze of her fingers on his coat as she leaves.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice tapering away into nothing as she walks away. He only sees her back as she goes, her shoulders falling into her coat and scarf as she opens the door, her hand holding her hat to her head, a few locks of her hair escaping it as a chill gust of wind winds through the pub.
When he gets back home that evening, he squeezes out some fresh yellow paint onto his palette and mounts a fresh canvas on his easel.
It's a strangely sunny day when his acceptance letter to the War Artist Programme arrives.
Most of London has taken to the streets, deciding to enjoy the brief respite from the wind and the cold, drinking in the sunshine, allowing themselves to walk out with one layer less than usual. But Killian sits at a seat by the window at home, his eyes tracing the barely there wisps of white as they float softly in the sea of blue, blue sky.
The envelope had arrived that morning, a thick thing filled with instructions and requirements, dates and locations for him to report to. The papers now lie spread upon his little dining table behind him even as the words in them flash through his mind.
Congratulations, we are happy to inform you that your application has been accepted.
The following requirements need to be met before you-
will be transferred to the Armed Forces-
travelling to France on the 5th of December-
Medical exam and submit to-
fit yourself for a uniform.
He closes his eyes, his forehead resting in his hand as he tries to calm the churning thoughts in his head, the lists of things that will need to be done, all the preparation, the uniforms, the medical exams.
The oath taking.
I, Killian Jones, do make Oath, that I will be faithful and bear true Allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth, His Heirs, and Successors, and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend His Majesty, His Heirs, and Successors, in Person, Crown and Dignity, against all enemies, and will observe and obey all orders of His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors, and of the Generals and Officers set over me. So help me God.
So help me God.
The words are as clear in his mind as the first day he had said them, a sense of belonging and duty blanketing him in warmth as he had stood shoulder to shoulder with his comrades in arms and sworn to protect his King and Country. But today all he can think of is the almost overwhelming amount of work that awaits him even as his heart protests making any move toward going back to the front again.
The sound of marching breaks him out of his reverie. Footsteps like thunder pass underneath his first floor window as the new recruits make their route march through the streets. He stands up to watch them, following the column of men as they match one another step for step, their arms swinging, their knees rising, their feet falling in perfect time with one another.
They look like one large machine as opposed to a hundred separate men and that says something about the war he imagines, but his mind is too clouded to say what. He runs a hand through the rough stubble that has grown upon his chin and cheeks, his hand reaching back into his hair that had grown too long for not having been looked after.
Turning away from the window, he walks to the large mirror in his bedroom. The man in the mirror stares back at him, his face unkempt, his clothes even worse. His eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, darkness lurking beneath and behind them. Prickly stubble covers part of his face, his hair falling onto his forehead. His hand is clenched into a fist at his side, his arm other hanging by his waist, forearm tapering away into nothing. The longer he looks, the harder it becomes to find the man that had stood in this same place not six years ago.
Freshly shaven and washed, his brother's hands upon his shoulders, holding his head high. His eyes had been a bright blue, hiding a soft sadness but nervous and excited for the future that awaited him.
He wonders now, how far he has buried that man. How far he has buried the hope and the light.
He wonders how he will look the next time he comes back.
(If he comes back.)
London,England
Summer, 1909
"You're ready, Killian."
"You really think so?"
Killian's voice is a breathy sigh of awe as he sees himself, his uniform crisp and warm from being freshly pressed, his cheeks smooth, his hair clipped short and swept softly away from his face. He feels different in it.
Taller somehow.
"Aye, little brother. You're going to make us proud."
Liam's voice is firm, confident. His hands on Killian's shoulders sure, his eyes meeting Killian's with pride twinkling in their bright depths. Killian cannot help but smile back, Liam's mood infectious as he allows himself to believe too. That he would do his brother proud, that he would wash away the last few months with this new adventure, that he would finally find himself again after being so terribly lost after-
Milah.
Her name still sounds like sigh in his ears, her voice echoing through the empty corners of his mind after he had lost her. The sleeve of his uniform hides her name inked onto the skin of his left wrist but he feels it burn through the deep blue fabric. It has only been a few months since Liam had come home on leave and found him outside their house, his eyes glazed over, a cut on his face, blood dripping from it as he leaned against the door, his head resting on his forearm. He had gotten into a fight at a bar, heard or misheard someone speak her name, heard them say something about her character, something about how she had deserved to die of the terrible disease that took her. Killian had woken in his bed the next morning with a headache that pounded through his skull, unable to open his eyes from the painful effects of too much drink the night before.
Too much drink, too much anger, too much.
It has only been a few months since Killian had seen his brother look at him with soft, pitying eyes and suggest that perhaps he needs to get away from this city that rang with her reflections on every corner, that followed him around with whispers of scandal and lies, that made it hurt too much to pick up a brush again.
And Killian had listened. Even though he had refused this same offer a year ago when Liam had first proposed that Killian join him in the Navy, choosing instead to follow the path of his art, the look in Liam's eyes and the prospect of being able to escape this prison he had found himself in had been enough motivation to say yes.
Now he stands ready to go away on his very first posting, his brother behind him, his hands keeping Killian standing tall.
And a pride in his eyes that Killian wants to make sure never goes away.
"Alright then," Liam disappears from view for a minute to grab Killian's cap from the bed. He comes back to stand behind him and presses a hand to his shoulder to turn Killian around to face him.
He presses the cap onto Killian's head and suddenly Killian feels like he is standing taller still, his voice catching even as he tries to speak, his eyes welling up at the way his brother looks at him. Liam's eyes go up and down, scanning Killian's uniform before nodding decisively.
"You're ready brother," he says again, his hands brushing imaginary dust off of Killian's shoulders.
But for all the strength and steadiness his uniform gives him, when Liam's eyes meet his again, he feels like a boy. Like the child standing in a dimly lit hospital hallway having just lost his mother, like the teenager shouting at the door as his father left, like the young man sobbing into his arms because his love passed away before she could ever be his.
Like the little boy who had held his older brother's hand through it all.
He hugs him then, his arms going around Liam, his face burying itself in his shoulder as he leans on him one last time. Liam hugs him back, his hand clapping Killian on the back as he lets out a watery chuckle before pulling away, his hands on Killian's shoulders once more, a smile breaking across his face as he speaks.
"Write to me. Don't fall off the edge of the ship. You are going to make a bloody brilliant sailor."
Killian chuckles, smiling his own proud smile and nodding back.
He was certainly going to try.
London, England
Winter, 1915
He finds himself still staring at the empty space behind his shoulder, feeling the lack of the weight of hands on his shoulders, of the man who kept him standing when he could not stand for himself.
The Navy had been everything Killian had dreamed of. He had fallen in love with the ocean with his very first step on a ship.
(He always had been fast and reckless when it came to love.)
It had been hard work but, the salty spray in his face and the sun on his back had been all that he needed as he worked, always seeing his brother's face in his mind, always trying to make him proud.
But then the rumblings of war had begun. Patrolling had increased, a few skirmishes fought here and there and when they needed reinforcements, he had been sent to join his brother on his ship, the HMS Jewel.
He closes his eyes, his fist clenching as he brings himself back. Deep breaths as he begins to plan, as he tries to bring order to his muddy mind.
Medical exam first, he thinks. Best get that out of the way before he got on with the rest of it. His injury would not be a problem they'd said. Since he wouldn't be required to fight or be allowed to for that matter but a medical exam was still something he-
His eyes shoot open as he turns around. Facing his bed now he finds his canvas and its half finished painting by the window. A basic charcoal sketch for now but bits and pieces of colour already filling scattered spaces upon the canvas. He'd brought it in here last evening, chasing the light of the sun around his house as it set, settling finally in his bedroom beside its west facing window.
The warm sunlight hits the painting now as he moves to stand before it, almost reflecting some of the colours on his face. A small breeze floating in through a crack in the window, ruffling his hair as he smiles softly despite himself.
Medical exam first.
He'd want to believe otherwise but he has been hoping.
Quietly, fiercely.
That he would be able to see her again.
The hospital sounds the same as it always has but things are louder today and and yet somehow softer, lit by the warmth of the sun. It is like a gentle caress amidst the prickly kiss of the wind and people have begun to revel in it. Their voices louder, their smiles just a little brighter for having seen the sun through their own endless winter.
"This way, Captain."
Anna, the receptionist, walks with him as she leads him to an examination room. She looks the same as she had done two weeks ago but in the bright afternoon light, in the absence of his searing pain, her voice is sweeter to him. Kinder in a way that makes him try to smile back at her, to apologise for how he had behaved last time. He doesn't know how real his smile appears because though she smiles back, he doesn't quite register if it reaches her eyes, his body too restless, humming with nervous energy. In anticipation, in dread, he is not quite sure.
She is quick and steady as she measures his height and weight, the sounds from outside dimming as the door closes behind Anna when she leaves, asking him to wait. He barely notices doctor's name on the door-Victor something or other- as he walks in, his eyes scanning for soft, curling blonde hair escaping from a cap, for green eyes that he hopes will smile at him again.
But, the room is empty save for the table in the corner of the room, the cupboard, the chairs. It's layed out the same way as the room from last time. Perhaps a little bigger. The wallpaper is green he notices idly, his foot tapping against the floor as he leans against the table in the corner of the room. The sunlight from the window is much brighter in this room than the other, the pattern of the wallpaper almost glowing a golden yellow as the light hits it. The cupboard with the strange bottles is lit as well, the labels on them staring out at him, looking somehow far more sinister than the ones that Emma had been handling.
Emma
Her name sounds like his heart sighing softly in joy.
His eyes continue to dart about the room as he notices the smallest things. Looking for her first in the silhouettes of the people passing outside the door and then later in the way the bottles and cotton and gauze had been arranged in the little tray by the table, straight and neat. He looks for her in the coat that hangs by the door, grey wool and black buttons with a few mismatched ones mixed in, bits of stitching showing him where it had been mended. A well worn, well loved thing. He tries to remember if there had been a coat hanging by the door last time but his memory of her is overcome by the green of her eyes, the gold of her hair. The rest of the world dimming and blurring around her.
He knows- he knows that what he is doing is a little foolish. Indulging in this hopeless, wanting need to be near this woman he has seen for but a few fractions of an hour but still he lets himself search for her. Lets his mind be consumed by the colours of her, by the small flash of the smile in her voice, by the shadow of her touch on his shoulder.
He chases the comfort of her voice even as he had rejected it when he had first heard it.
It keeps him from closing his eyes and only hearing screaming explosions, from seeing wide eyes and crimson stains.
"Anna, please."
The door creaks open, just a little. He sees the edge of a blue dress peek through as the person takes one step inside, still speaking to Anna outside.
"We can discuss this later. Victor has a patient and I have to-"
His heart sighs softly again.
"Alright Anna."
A pause as Anna's voice comes through indistinctly when she replies. He stands straighter, hand unclenching at his side, smiles blossoming on his face.
"I will. I promise."
Another pause as Anna responds, the white of her apron visible now as the door opens wider, the back of her cap hanging down her back as she faces away, speaking to Anna still.
"I know. I'll see you later, okay?."
He hears that smile in her voice again and then, he sees her.
The door is directly opposite from the window and it seems almost comical to him how the universe always has her meet him in a way that makes him want to paint. Sunlight falling gracefully across her apron, a slice cut into it, a gentle arc of gold against the white. Curls of hair escaping her cap already, falling onto her forehead as she looks at the clipboard in her hand. She looks more put together than the last two times that he's seen her, the lines around her crisp and sharp, as if she is too real for the world.
She hasn't looked up at him yet, walking towards him, her eyes fixed on the sheets in her hand as she flips through them. Looking for his name perhaps, the papers he had handed Anna when he'd come in. Her eyes scan each paper several times as if she is seeing but not understanding. She seems a little preoccupied but he stays quiet, lost in the crinkles on her brow as she looks at the papers in concentration.
He cannot stop the smile on his face from growing wider as she addresses him.
"The doctor will be with you in a moment. I am just going to collect your vital signs and-"
She pauses, having finally found the sheet she was looking for.
And she finally meets his eyes.
"Captain Jones?"
"Did you miss me?"
He may have imagined it but he swears that she smiles at the sound of his voice before ducking her head back down to her clipboard.
"Take a seat, Captain."
He moves to sit on a chair by the examination table while she gets his papers in order, shuffling through and arranging the various forms the doctor would need to fill in as his exam would be performed.
He watches her as she does this, her fingers pulling, pushing, stacking sheets of paper on a desk, her eyes fixed on them as she tries to finish as fast as she can. Finally she stands to face him once more, walking until she is standing in front of the chair upon which he sits, clipboard in her hand again as she reads the letter that he had handed in at the reception, the one requesting his clean bill of health to proceed with his new posting.
"An artist?"
Her voice is surprised. The word released upon a soft breath, coloured with something he cannot place, something that makes his lips curve up into a smile, something that makes his heart feel lighter somehow.
It is not much but it is enough to have him stand. He sways gently into her space and reaches his hand out towards her, his fingers unfurling, stained with the remnants of the paint he had used that morning.
"It is all I know to do."
Though but a small curve of her lips, he does not have to imagine her smile this time.
His fingertips are stained a bright yellow and she wonders how she hadn't noticed before.
In the dark of the pub, in the midst of the exhaustion that had plagued her at their first meeting, she hadn't noticed that he was drowning in colour.
It is faded and a little patchy, melting into other shades in various smudges along his hand, some even going down to his wrist. There is a little bit of green by his eyebrow, a smudge of blue on his jaw by his chin, and she can almost see him. Brush held loosely between his fingers as he absently pushes his hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand, little splatters of colour getting on his clothes and face when he gets a little too excited with the flourishes of his brush.
And the same smile on his face that he wears now.
She finds herself smiling back at him.
She hadn't been expecting him when she'd come in, when she'd been told that she was to help prepare a patient for his medical exam for return to the field. She'd been expecting a man nicked by shrapnel, his body healed and his spirit only slightly dented. She'd been expecting a young man whose injuries had only spurred him to crash headlong back into battle to prove himself. She had been expecting someone forced to go back because they still had themselves intact enough to be of service.
She hadn't expected him with his missing hand and his sad eyes that seemed to mirror the loss of her own, that seemed to speak in the same language as hers did. Someone who had already lost too much, who had been sent away because he had had nothing left to give.
(Though it seems he has something left after all.)
And as he sits there with his hand open toward her, his smile lit by the sun and yet somehow brighter, he looks so very young. Beautiful somehow as he tells her that his art is all he knows to do.
She wants to hold on to that hand and keep him from going out there again, keep him from coming back to her one day with that smile entirely gone and the light in his eyes completely dimmed. She wants to hold on to the pieces of him that have somehow survived this nightmare.
She opens her mouth to say something, her eyes drifting from his hand to his face but the words catch in her throat. He raises his eyebrow and nods at her, as if encouraging her to speak, his hand falling back to his side.
"I-"
She clears her throat and turns away from him lest she say more than she wants to or more than she is willing to. Her eyes drift back to his papers, his height and weight already entered into the sheet in Anna's neat handwriting before putting them away. She begins to collect the equipment she and the doctor would need from the cupboard. Stethoscope, reflex hammer, the box with the sphygmomanometer.
"Why are they sending an artist to the front?" she asks.
There is no way a man would choose to go back, surely. Her voice comes out clear, steady and she is glad of it.
"To record the goings on, to paint the glories and victories of our boys."
"To encourage more to join their ranks," she finishes his sentence as she comes to stand beside him, placing the reflex hammer on the table next to him.
"Aye."
She is facing away from him, arranging the equipment on the tray when he leans closer, bending his head to meet her eyes.
"Where did you serve, love?"
She looks up quickly, meeting his eyes with her wide ones, taken aback by his sudden question. She answers immediately with her own question, forgetting even, to admonish him for calling her love again.
"How did you-"
"You have that look in your eyes. The one we all seem to bring back from France."
He smiles that crooked smile again. Part sad, part bitter and part something else entirely. Something dangerous. Like camaraderie. Like understanding.
"Yes, well," she looks away again, her eyes staring fixedly at her equipment tray, her hands straightening and rearranging things as she responds.
"Casualty Clearing Station," she says. Her voice half hidden behind the sounds of metal as she moves the stethoscope around for the third time before moving away to start working on getting the blood pressure machine ready, needing for this to end as soon as possible. Her heart beating faster every time he said something that saw through her.
Every time that she let him.
"Then you know. We all need something to hold on to when we're out there and my art was mine. I draw and scribble sketches on any piece of paper I could find on that ship. It kept me sane."
His voice lowers a little, apprehension colouring it as he asks his next question.
"What do you hold on to?"
She doesn't answer. Her hands working instead to unpack the blood pressure machine, attaching the cuff to the sphygmomanometer. She begins to deflect, to say something to bring this conversation back to solid ground but before she can speak-
"I understand that you're afraid to talk- to reveal yourself. But perhaps you will find that an understanding ear will help lighten the weight you carry on your shoulders. If only just a little. I know it would help me to listen to someone speak. Besides-"
His voice is firm, soft and coaxing. But most of all it is sincere. She likes to believe that she can always spot a lie but right now, her heart tells her that he's telling the truth. He hasn't spoken of their encounter at The Warren House, recognising the value of that hour spent in silent companionship.
It is that fact and the way his voice falls away into defeat as he speaks again.
"Besides, I will have nobody to tell and we don't know if I am coming back at all."
Her heart feels a sudden ache, as if the loss of this man would hurt more that it should for someone she has only known a few days.
She answers him.
"My son."
She straightens from her spot by the desk, moving the machine to the tray beside the examination table, working brusquely.
"Would you please?"
She gestures towards the examination table, directing him to take a seat. He doesn't say anything, his eyes a little wide as he follows her instruction. His eyes search hers as she takes his hand, beginning to fix the cuff on his upper arm.
She is tightening the cuff when he finally speaks again.
"Your son? You're- married?"
Her eyes move from the cuff to his and she watches as he visibly retreats, his eyes less open, his body stiffer.
"I apologise Mrs Swan. I didn't realise- If I've been too forward-"
He stumbles on his words and she almost laughs. But instead, she sighs, rolling her eyes as she answers, "I was the one who asked you to call me Miss Swan, remember?"
She looks away, finishing setting up the cuff, one last pull to make sure it was secure.
"My husband isn't with us anymore. He died in the war."
The lie rolls off her tongue much more easily than any of the truths she's shared with him. After all, she has had much more practise with it.
He doesn't seem to catch her fib. His eyes softening as he looks at her and she braces herself for the inevitable platitudes.
I'm sorry.
He was a hero.
He gave the ultimate sacrifice.
But he says none of these things.
"The war has taken so much from us all."
He says this with the same defeat in his voice as he had when he'd told her that he may not return from this. He says this like he understands.
Who did you lose?
The question waits at the tip of her tongue but she swallows it, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks as she realises that he has truly lived through the loss that she is only pretending to feel. She clears her throat instead, reaching for the stethoscope.
"I'm going to measure your blood pressure now, Captain."
He nods once and stays silent as she lifts his arm up, her hand under his elbow supporting it. Pressing the stethoscope to the crook of his elbow, she begins to inflate the cuff. She feels his eyes on her, searching her face for something even as her head is bowed over his arm. His presence is a warmth at her side that seems to put the sun outside to shame.
The room is quiet save for the sound of their breathing and the rhythmic hissing of the cuff inflating. She focusses on the sounds through her stethoscope, listening carefully for the tapping sound that signals her first measurement as she begins to now slowly deflate the cuff, her fingers loosening around the bulb. She quickly notes it down and waits for the sound to stop, allowing herself to settle back into the rhythm of something she knows and knows well, taking his second measurement when the tapping sound disappears.
She takes the ear tips of the stethoscope out of her ears, hands already reaching to unfasten the cuff from his arm.
"How old is your boy?"
His voice startles her a little even as he speaks slow and tentative, her heart already wanting to retreat but her mouth does not seem to want to listen as she answers him anyway.
"He's just turned thirteen," she says, not looking at him as she packs away the machine, turning away to place it back into the cupboard.
She is almost speaking to herself as she continues, "And already he wants to enlist."
When she turns back around to face Captain Jones, he seems frozen.
"He is far too young, surely- to be thinking of such things."
His voice is incredulous edged with something that sounds almost desperate. As if he wants to protect her Henry without ever laying eyes on him. She comes back to him, taking his arm again with a raised brow to ask his permission, answering him as she pushes his sleeve up his arm a little so her fingers can find skin. She ignores how her own pulse seems to quicken even as she prepares to measure his.
"He is. Far too young but the world tells him that he must be a hero, that he must sacrifice for his country to be a man. What else is a young boy to think?"
"Still. I cannot imagine what-"
"I need to measure your pulse now, Captain. If you could-"
She cuts him off even as his voice had begun to fall dangerously close to the way that Anna had spoken to her just before she had come in here, as she begins to feel afraid of revealing too much once more.
Her fingers are warm on his wrist, his heartbeat pulsing against them as she counts. He is quiet through it all. She scratches another number onto his form, dropping his hand quickly and moving away.
His voice fills her ears as soon as his heartbeat leaves her fingers.
"I could speak to him, if you would allow it?"
"Sorry?
He raises his injured arm a bit and repeats.
"I could speak to him? Perhaps show him that war is not just medals and glory?"
His sentences all end in questions as he tries to find the length and depth of her boundaries, testing to see if he could offer his help in this way and god but she is so tempted to say yes. To allow this man who seems to hold the same burning in his eyes as she does, to perhaps take away a part of the weight that lives like a stone in her belly.
But she remembers what Anna had said just as she had left her in the examination room, her words ringing through her, her heart simmering in defiance.
"You could do far worse than Lieutenant Walsh, Emma. Promise me you'll think about it at least? Trust me, having a partner makes dealing with all this just a little bit easier."
And she cannot accept.
She can do this alone. She will do this alone. Just as she has done everything else in her life. She repeats this to herself even as she watches his face fall when she softly refuses his offer.
"That is all, Captain. Doctor Whale will finishing the rest of your exam."
"Thank you Miss Swan."
Her eyes are caught on his as she asks the next question, standing entirely too close as he gets off the exam table.
"When do you leave?"
His voice falls to match the distance between them.
"As early as next week."
The door opens behind her, Victor's voice filtering through as he walks in and she all but jumps away from Captain Jones.
"Sorry I'm late, just had a little bit of an argument with a stubborn fellow who refused to take his medicine on my rounds."
Victor doesn't seem to notice anything out if the ordinary as he walks past her to shake Captain Jones' hand.
Their voices seem to muffle under the sound of her heart pounding against her ribs as does her own as she says something about Elsa needing her. Victor nods his assent as she begins to leave, feeling Captain Jones' eyes on her every step of the way.
"Goodbye Captain. And good luck."
The door closes behind her.
And though she doesn't think herself a religious person, she finds herself sending a silent prayer out into the world, hoping that he comes back home safely.
A/N: So we're about 2 chapters from the end of Act 1 which is pretty exciting for me personally :D
Notes, historical or otherwise:
In this chapter,
The process of bring trained to become a soldier was a well oiled machine which often had to be rushed through because of the sheer number of soldiers required for a war of this scale. The steps included the ones Killian mentions such as the medical exams and the oath-taking.
A Sphygmomanometer is a blood pressure machine yes I only recently learned the word and yes, I googled it every time I had to type it the first few times. I have finally learned how to spell and pronounce it and I feel fairly accomplished :D
Now, I couldn't find any accurate information on how exactly recruitment went about for the War Artist's Scheme so that part is extrapolated from what I do already know.
That's all for now and well, things are progressing on the CS front and I for one am very excited to show you what happens next! :D
I hope you enjoyed this chapter and please, please do let me know what you think 3