At 1800 hours, a solider burst through the flaps of the tent. All around, the nurses looked up, startled by the sudden movement. It was just barely post suppertime, and the first wave of evening patients had not yet trickled in, so they had all been focused on more idle tasks when the interruption came.

"A group of scouts encountered the enemy," he called out. "Five casualties: Two dead, three injured. Where are the doctors?"

"Doctor Haprèle is making a supply run to town tonight, and Doctor Ramier is recovering from Avian Influenza in his tent," Alya piped up.

"What about the others?" he asked.

Everyone exchanged an uneasy glance. They bit their lips and looked from one person to the next, asking who would be the barer of bad news.

"There are no other doctors, sir," Mylène responded, stepping out from behind the curtain that separated the quarantine ward from the rest of the hospital.

The solider threw his gaze from one person to the next, almost begging for a better answer. He looked trapped, as though cornered by some invisible beast. It was very likely that he was told to retrieve a doctor and deliver him to the secondary camp as quickly as possible. Waiting for one, tracking one down, or returning empty handed would be a waste of precious time, and had not been considered an option—yet now it seemed as though he had no alternative.

"Marinette could do it," Alya interjected into his thought process.

Relief washed over him like a wave as the color returned to his cheeks. He scanned frantically for this "Marinette," and latched onto her with just a bit of prompting.

"Right. Please pack a bag and meet me out front in no more than five minutes, Miss Marinette." He gave a quick salute and then exited out the way he had come.

"Alya," Marinette had hissed, the moment her name had been uttered, but she understood immediately that her friend's intentions were altruistic. Marinette had assisted with countless surgeries of even the most delicate nature, and although she was not old enough to have obtained a proper medical degree, she had learned more than enough first-hand to be useful now—provided the soldiers' wounds weren't too complex.

She had no idea what sorts of injuries the patients there would present with, as the solider had disappeared before she could be given any further information, so she packed a bag with as many of the necessities as she could recall, and rushed out to the waiting transport vehicle.

They arrived at the second camp in little more than an hour. It was a small, makeshift establishment, with few structures over four feet tall. The majority of the camp consisted of sleeping tents, personal fires, and gear haphazardly strewn across the dusty ground.

Marinette was lead first to the expedition leader's tent—tall, and with a sturdy, if not impermanent, feel to it—where she was given the warmest welcome, briefed on the situation, and introduced to the two patients who were still able to stand. The first was a man named Otis—fondly nicknamed "Growler" by the rest of the company—who had clearly been through the Great War, and returned for seconds. He extended his arm quickly to show that he had already taken the liberty of removing the bullet… with his own fingers. Judging by the scars that decorated his body, this was not the first time he'd done such a thing. Still, Marinette insisted on sanitizing the wound before setting him loose. He grumbled that this "really wasn't necessary," but didn't impede her work.

The second man gave a sheepish grin and drew aside a bundle of rags to reveal a bloodied ear, nearly blown clean off. It was far beyond aesthetic repair, but didn't appear to be causing the man much pain. Marinette snapped her fingers twice and discovered the eardrum to be perfectly functional, so she simply sanitized it, wrapped it in gauze, and gave careful instructions to return in the morning for fresh bandages. He nodded in compliance, and left to tell his tale to the other soldiers. "The most horrific wound she'd ever seen," he'd say, "But I was as calm as they come." Marinette would never tell the man that desensitized nerves in that area had created a wound far gorier than it was painful. She preferred to let them gloat.

Her first two cases now departed, Marinette was lead to a second, slightly shorter, but still fairly spacious tent with three small cots inside. On the furthest to the right, she saw him—the face she'd been searching for the full week past—Private Agreste.

When he saw her, he sat straight up and forced a smile. The word "forced" isn't in any way to comment on the insincerity of the smile, but rather to note how much effort it took to craft the expression on his face. What really appeared was closer to a grimace, created from the pure elation of seeing his favorite nurse, combined with an overwhelming bodily pain, which had been tormenting him for hours before her arrival.

"Where is it?" she asked, getting straight to the point.

He gestured to his collarbone with a laugh that quickly turned into a groan.

It certainly was a lovely little wound, if ever she'd seen one. The bullet had nestled itself into the crevices of his right clavicle—indenting the bone, and tearing away the skin around it in a dirty, lopsided circle of bruises and damaged tissue. As horrible as it appeared, though, the placement was incredible. A few millimeters lower, and she'd be looking at a punctured lung. A few millimeters to the left, and he could have lost mobility in his shoulder. A few millimeters to the right—she didn't want to consider it—but a few millimeters to the right, she'd be looking at a shattered trachea. Actually, she wouldn't be looking at anything. "Five casualties: Three dead, two injured." She didn't want to think about that. This present situation was more than enough.

"I need to examine the wound," she said calmly, pushing the thought from her mind. "Will you be okay while I do that?"

"S-sure…" he tried to say convincingly. She wasn't convinced. She could see his knuckles turning white as he gripped one edge of the cot with all his strength—grubby nails stabbing helplessly into the opposite palm, finding nothing else to grab onto for support.

"Hold my hand," she said, kneeling next to him and extending her arm for him to take.

He looked at it hesitantly for a split second, and then clutched onto it with all his strength. There was something soothing about the gesture. He could feel her pulse beating steadily despite the panic he felt welling up inside of him. For a moment, he felt almost calm, as though the fear was flowing out of him and being replaced only by her serene confidence. It was a sense of safety that he hadn't known in a long time.

She took a moment to adjust to the pressure, and then got to work one-handed. Gingerly, she excavated the affected area, moving aside bits of dead skin and brushing off dirt. Thought it had been largely covered upon first inspection, she was able to determine that the wound itself was fairly shallow, and the bullet had a clear path for removal. The only complication was that the chunk of metal was likely partially imbedded in the bone, which could make her job exponentially more difficult if it refused to come quietly. Still, she hoped it wouldn't be too daunting a task.

She released his hand and rummaged through her medical bag for the same bottle of antiseptic and pair of tweezers that had treated him the day they had met. He responded to the loss of support by grabbing hold of his own arm and squeezing as hard as he could. When she applied the antiseptic, the stinging sensation caused him to grip so tightly, she was certain he would rupture a blood vessel, although he did not cry out. He merely whimpered as he shook.

"You'll hurt yourself if you keep doing that," she remarked, pausing in her work—tweezers poised at the edge of the crater. She was right. By this point, he'd managed to dig in his nails far enough to draw blood.

"Sorry… sorry…" he quavered, lowering his hand. It came to rest at his side, but his nerves were no less on edge, and he did not cease his shaking. In fact, as Marinette first caught hold of the bullet, he yelped, raising his arm, as though to swat away the cause of his suffering. It was only through sheer force of will that he managed to halt before striking.

"Sorry! Sorry!" he spluttered, tears finally welling up in his eyes. "I… I just…" Marinette did not pause in her work. The sooner she was finished, the sooner he would be free of this torment. "I'm sorry but…" He reached up to her pleadingly: "Could I hold your hand again?"

She felt a pang of guilt at the request, but gave only a small smile as she kept on: "I'm sorry, but I need both hands for this." In this instance, the loss of a working arm meant a loss of precision on her part. As much as she knew he needed the support, she simply didn't have a limb to spare.

"Please."

Finally, she paused in her toil, and looked down at him. He was a pathetic sight, truly. His eyes were red and puffy with fresh tears, and he was utterly disoriented. She couldn't help but feel sorry for him—and Marinette tried never to let emotion cloud her performance.

"Around the middle," she said. She was met with little more than confusion. "Grab onto me around the middle."

"L-like... like a hug?" he questioned.

She wondered what the proper response was. Was it better to explain the psychological benefits of close contact, or to empower the gesture as one of sincere emotion?

"It's whatever you need it to be," she had no sooner responded, than he had thrown his arms around her waist and pulled her close. As she dug, he buried his face into the crook of her neck. She could feel his shallow breath on her skin, coming too fast and often—tears mingling with the fabric of her dress. He still trembled as she worked, but she used her slender frame as a pillar of support, and within moments the bullet was safely resting on her tray—the wound sanitized, and a tourniquet fashioned to stop the bleeding.

She breathed a sigh of relief that transformed itself into a chuckle as it escaped. He drew back from her, and watched as she tried to obscure the reaction with a delicate hand to her lips, but he too was caught up in the jubilation of the moment and joined her in a deep, impassioned laughter—the kind that only shows its face when the danger has passed. It was the laughter that rises from the troupes at the end of a battle, and the laughter that passes between friends after a fight. It's the laughter of children when the teacher has left the classroom, and the laughter of runners at the end of a race. It was the laughter of release, as the tension of the situation dissipated into the cool, night air.

When their moment of unprofessionalism had passed, Marinette spoke: "Get some rest, solider. I'll have a look at the rest of your injuries in the morning."

He didn't object, and with some assistance, he was able to lie on his back.

"W-ill…" he stuttered, "Will…." he changed his phrasing, "I-I… I have a request… if… if you have time."

She tittered internally. Of course she had time. She'd be spending the night at this camp, and she had no other patients to attend to. Still, she was pleased that he valued her time enough to ask.

"Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?"

Now this she was taken aback by. It was not an uncommon request by soldiers, certainly, but she hadn't expected anything so bold from this one. Normally, it was a lecherous request, made by old men who craved extended company. This request was so sincere she couldn't help but comply.

She brought over a stool, and took her seat like a guard at first watch.

"Can I…?" he extended his hand. She took it without answer. Of course.

"Now close your eyes," she whispered, as he acquiesced.

In the dim light of the lanterns, his soft features looked almost as angelic as they had the moment she'd first laid eyes on him—golden and pure, and unclouded by the miseries of bloodshed. She had the urge to stroke his hair, to caress his cheek—to sing him sweet lullabies until her voice mixed with the wind that whispered and gossiped outside of the safety of the tent. She wanted to swaddle him in blankets and hold him close to her heart, but she resisted. It was getting more and more difficult to maintain her professional demeanor around him, she admitted—just as it was getting more and more difficult to keep open her eyes. Her lids felt heavy, and they drooped further with each heavy, laborious blink. Sleep clouded her vision, like soft cotton piling up in her mind. Slumped in her seat, she swayed only slightly as the faint light of the room blurred in and out of consciousness. Soon, her lashes came to rest on her cheeks and ceased to rise. She breathed easily there as the night crept by outside.

The soft light of morning found her still hunched over on her little stool, and he lying neatly beside her—their hands still clasped just as tightly as they had been the night before.