All things considered, it was practically a miracle that Marinette woke up as she did—by her own volition, and in her own time. Retrospectively, she could have been jolted from her seat by the rude call of an officer entering the space; perhaps, it could have even been the General himself who found here there. Luckily, though, it was nothing more than the warm light of day that roused her from her slumber.
She took a moment to adjust to the somewhat unfamiliar surroundings, which, though quite similar to her usual abode, felt alien to her in the early morning hours. The first thing she was aware of, even before her vision cleared of sleep, was the awful ache in her back and lower body. The second thing she noticed—before she had time to question exactly why she was presently seated instead of lying down—was a soft pressure round her palm.
With a great blush, she recognized the soldier lying there, and responded by standing abruptly, and knocking back the little stool with a great clatter, which woke the then sleeping person. He blinked in confusion a few times, and then smiled up at her.
"Good morning, ma'am. Did you sleep well?"
In her embarrassment, she'd managed to drop his hand, and now showed no obvious sign of her long stagnation. Perhaps he assumed that she'd retired to her own tent after he'd fallen asleep, and had presently returned to wake him. She hoped this was the case, and answered in turn.
"Yes, and you?"
He chuckled, "Surprisingly well, actually."
"Your injuries didn't wake you, I hope," she commented.
"Only a few times," he smiled, "It was nice to see you there when I did."
Now, she blushed profusely and brought her hands to her cheeks in a vain attempt to cover the reaction. She let out a low groan, and winched as she spoke.
"Please don't tell anyone about that…."
"What?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"I fell asleep on the job," she asserted, stretching the truth just a hair, "If the General found out, I might be placed on probation." This was a lie. Marinette's services were far too valuable to lose over an infraction of this nature. She'd receive a reprimand, certainly, and perhaps a metaphorical slap on the wrist, but she was far more worried about her reputation than she was her job.
"Oh," he replied, nodding his understanding, and his promise.
"Now that you're awake, Mr. Agreste, would you like me to bring you breakfast, or may I check your wounds first?"
"You can check," he answered, "I'm not really hungry yet."
She quickly set to work looking after the two old familiars. She was somewhat alarmed to find that without her instruction otherwise, he had actually left the bandage around his arm all this time. Thankfully, he informed her that—while he hadn't the insight to air it out, as she would have instructed—he did at least have the forethought to change the bandage every day. When she finally removed it, she found little more than a tiny scar—not even enough to sterilize. She calculated that it would quite likely be invisible before the year was out.
The abdomen wound was another matter entirely. The area itself was healing nicely enough—the bruising had nearly vanished, and what had been previously cut, was now scabbed over—from what she could tell, entirely without infection, and not likely in need of any grafting. Still, with the continued presence of burned tissue, and considering the shear breadth and severity of the injury, it was an ugly sight to behold—one which was likely to remain for the rest of his days. Of all the scars that could have possibly marred his features, he was certainly lucky it wasn't somewhere more apparent. However, it did mean a lifetime of awkward explanations each time he was forced to remove his shirt.
"How does it look, nurse?" he asked, apprehensively.
"Well," she said, giving her most professional opinion, "You'll never be a model."
By mid-afternoon, the rest of the regiment had been packed up and moved to their location—or rather a few hundred paces Northeast of it. Alya had taken the initiative to transport Marinette's things for her, and so it was that she was reunited with her belongings, and her own bed, before she even had want of them. She was quite thankful to note that her best friend had not forgotten even a single drawing, and had even managed to include the soldier's simple shrine in her baggage.
The following week passed quickly. Everyone was busy setting up the new base. Supply vans ran in and out of camp constantly, and there was an air of fresh vitality all about. Marinette divided her time between unpacking and setting up the new hospital, and attending to what few patients still remained. Besides Private Agreste, there were only a handful of stragglers still harboring wounds from their first battle. The rest of the patients were a menagerie of common colds, twisted ankles, sprained wrists, broken arms, and an assortment of imagined ailments, created either out of hypochondria, or a simple desire to get out of work.
It was little wonder, then, that Marinette devoted more of her attention to Private Agreste than she did anyone else. The other nurses, too, had taken notice of her focus, and had determined it best to deem that particular solider "Marinette's patient." The only oblivious party was Chloé, who persisted in an occasional attempt at flirting under the thin guise of "help." After what had happened last time, Adrien was not quick to trust the exuberant nurse with anything related to his well being, but he did indulge her in a quick drink of water, or some other comfort, which she could easily provide.
What little time Marinette spent outside the hospital tent was usually reserved for trips to the dining tent, and little more. She rarely ate with the soldiers—instead electing to return to her private quarters with meals. She supposed it was unnecessary, these days, since Rose had elected to start a catering service for the hospital—transporting plates of food back and forth on a rickety cart—but Marinette enjoyed the fresh air, and the brief opportunity to observe the soldier's socializing, even if she was not one to join in their conversations herself.
It was here, whilst waiting her turn, that she spotted him. She looked up just in time to catch a swath of fiery auburn hair disappearing into the crowd.
"Nathanaël!" she cried out, forgetting all sense of etiquette. She raced from her place in line and chased after, but was unable to catch him, or even make him turn, before he was swallowed up by the crowd of soldiers racing to grab a plate. She shoved through them a minute longer, until she realized the vanity of her actions and stopped.
Nathanaël was deceased. Whoever it was she had seen, it had not been him.
She scolded herself for her senselessness, and resumed her place in line—now even further away, due to the onslaught of hungry soldiers extending the wait.
When she finally returned to the tent, it had grown so late, and she had been so famished she had eaten her food on the walk, and now had little more than an empty plate to stack with the rest on Rose's cart before resuming her duties inside the hospital. She was surprised instead, to be greeted by Private Agreste—now out of bed and anxiously waiting for her at the mouth of the tent.
"Some of the soldiers and I are going into town tonight," he informed without hesitation.
Seeing her confusion, he continued. "Nino got wind of a little dance hall offering free drinks for soldiers this weekend, and Ivan knows one of the supply truck drivers. He said we could ride in the back when he picks up his goods tonight so long as we don't mind the cramped space."
She stared at him for a second, wondering why he was telling her all of this.
"A-are you asking permission?" she finally queried.
"I'm asking you to come with me."
The pieces finally clicked in her brain, and she was caught off guard once again.
"Several of the nurses are coming already, Nino says," he explained, "I didn't want you to feel left behind."
"R-right. Of course," she recovered. "Yes, I'd love to come with you," she responded cheerfully, although she was entirely unsure of her decision.
"Great!" he beamed, "We're meeting on the Southeast side of camp, right at the loading zone at 10:00. I've got to change my uniform, but I wanted to make sure you knew before I did."
And with that, he sped out the front of the tent, faster than she'd seen him move all week.
She, in turn, retreated to her own abode in time to find that Alya and Chloé were also attending, as well as Mylène from the quarantine wing, although Sabrina and Juleka had elected to stay behind—Sabrina, because she was afraid of socializing, and because someone needed to attend to things in their absence, and Juleka because she claimed she had greater interest in a member of the kitchen staff than she did in any of the soldiers going, and she had no desire to dance alone.
Marinette felt almost giddy as Alya helped her pick out her cleanest dress—still a part of her uniform, of course, as she had brought no other clothing besides her traveling suit—and apply a bit of rouge. Chloé scoffed at the miniscule dusting of makeup, but Marinette felt like a princess with the pink stain on her cheeks. Before her watch reached ten, Alya hurried everyone out the door, and to the awaiting transport vehicle.
"Lovely to see you again, Ma'am…" Nino said, indicating Marinette, "Alya~" he winked.
"When did you—" Marinette began.
"Shhhhh," Alya hushed, covering Marinette's mouth before she could continue further, "We got to talking while I was taking care of his injuries, but I swear I haven't seen him since."
"Well, if that's all—" But before she could finish, Private Nino approached again.
"You left this last time," he said, handing Alya the small note-pad she kept with her at all times, before departing again to arrange seating.
"'But I haven't seen him since,'" Marinette mimicked teasingly.
"Quiet, you," Alya sulked, but the two burst into quiet giggles despite.
At this point the truck was already nearly full, Chloé sitting triumphantly at the head, like a queen on her throne of hay and boxes, while rows of soldiers huddled together to conserve space. Nino had been quick to ask Alya if she had any interest in sharing the driver's bench, which she had, of course, accepted. All that was missing was Private Agreste.
Presently, he came sprinting up the road, just as the call went out that they were nearly out of space.
"Anyone else better be prepared to squish," Nino called.
Mylène was the first to oblige—hesitantly, of course—but with a bit of prompting, she crawled into the lap of one of the soldiers already seated in the truck bed. Another pair moved closer together, and Adrien was able to find space in the far corner of the vehicle. He held out his hand, and Marinette climbed in after him, turning for a moment, before he pulled her down between his knees and they sat stacked together, as Alya and Nino shut the flap and closed them inside.
The journey there was a long and uncomfortable one, though the spirits of the pilgrims were bright and filled with excitement at the prospect of the evening. At first, Marinette had done her best to sit up and away from Adrien, but as an especially sharp bump had sent her flying backwards into his still-tender wound, she found it better to brace herself against the good side of his body, and lean into his form, arms crossed nervously across her chest. He, in turn, kept both hands firmly planted on the ground, to limit their movement, and the two made a point of neither speaking of, nor non-verbally acknowledging, their unlucky positioning.
When they arrived, the dance was in full swing. The two-floored dancehall was absolutely packed with locals and travelers alike, ready to enjoy an evening of fun and festivities. When they entered, a squeal went up from the crowd. They'd hoped the advertisement would draw in some troops, but aside from a smattering of local veterans and a few obvious fakes, they hadn't had any luck yet. The boys were quickly snatched up, both by young women who rushed them to the dance floor, and by jolly older men who ushered them to the bar for free drinks, ebullient slaps on the back, and "thank yous" for their service. In the hustle of the crowd, even the nurses weren't forgotten. Men came pouring out of the rafters—asking for their hands and ears and hearts, if they should be so lucky. Chloé quickly found herself in a circle of admirers, dropping compliment after compliment upon her pretty blonde hair, her sparkling blue eyes, and other neoteric features. She spent the night snapping between one partner and the next, leaving a trail of suitors in her wake.
Mylène accepted her compliments when they came, for she hadn't quite the prowess that Chloé possessed, and soon headed to the bar in search of more familiar company. Alya, instead, rejected her courtiers swiftly, and marched off towards certain confrontation on the dance floor, where her hapless beau had been snatched up by some classic beauty. Marinette, like Chloé, found herself passed from one partner to the next in an endless stream of twists and dips and turns and twirls, until she was so utterly out of breath she had to physically remove herself from the dance floor. She found solace at the bottom of the stairwell, neatly positioning herself in a small alcove near the restrooms, and leaned against the wall with a hand on her fast-beating heart.
"Come here often?" a familiar voice asked.
She smiled up at him, as he offered her a drink from the bar.
"I hope it's not too much for you," Adrien said earnestly, "The bartender made it for me, so it might be a little strong…."
Marinette scoffed at the implication, but she laughed at it as well. 'Women's drinks' had never interested her. She could hold her liquor as well as any man.
"You haven't been dancing?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow.
"I tried," he replied sheepishly, "The first girl who asked put her hand right here," he motioned to the sore spot, "and I yelped. They were more interested in babying me after that…."
She took a sip. "And you, of all people, aren't used to being babied, are you?"
He looked hurt for a second, and then smiled. "It's different when you do it. You're not nearly as condescending."
"Just doing my job, solider," she grinned, in mock imitation of her usual demeanor.
"But you're not working now, are you?" he asked, half jokingly, and half genuinely wondering what kind of change he could expect from her personality.
"No," she assured, "I'm off the clock, so to speak."
He seemed more thrilled by this than even she would have expected. She doubted the weak drink was having any effect on him, but the atmosphere of the place was truly infectious and she found even she was giddier than usual. To be perfectly frank, this was, quite possibly, the happiest she'd felt since the war began—no, since long before the war had begun. Marinette had almost forgotten what it felt like to feel true glee, and now that it was happening, she wanted to relish every moment.
"Say, Miss—" he began, enthusiastically, and then frowned and furrowed his brow, "You know, in all this time I never thought to ask your name…. Isn't that strange?"
"It's Marinette," she replied, realizing the oddity of their predicament, but seeing no reason to place blame, "Marinette Dupain-Cheng."
"Well, Miss Dupain-Cheng," he said, bowing slightly, "May I have this dance?"
She took his hand with a laugh, and they hurried to the floor. Things had been awkward to start, since Marinette insisted on a less athletic and jerky style of movement, and heavily favored his left side, which had fewer injuries and caused him less pain; but after a few songs, they had found their rhythm, and danced together like old pros drunk on the music and the night, dipping and twirling with the best of them. They spun and jumped and stepped in time as the faces of the other dancers blurred past, appearing more like scenery than other people to the jubilant pair. They were so caught up with one another, they hardly realized that the venue had slowly been clearing of bodies.
When at last they returned to the truck—now even more crowded with the new addition of supplies for the camp—Marinette climbed happily into Adrien's lap, and snuggled in close. He responded by wrapping his arms around her, and holding her tightly as the wagon prattled on down the rocky, uneven roads.
By the time they reached the base, it was nearly dawn, and, comforted by Adrien's warm embrace, Marinette had long since dozed off to sleep—as had any number of the vehicle's other occupants. She was awoken first and foremost by the halting of the van as it came to a sudden stop in the same location they'd departed earlier that night. The clunk of the flap opening, and the invitation to climb down roused her next, but what brought her to full alertness was the distant voice of a solider running towards them, calling out the news at the top of his lungs:
"France has fallen! The government has surrendered to the Nazis! I repeat: France has fallen!"