June 1 - Surgeon's Wagon

"Don't.. Don't you dare!" He regretted uttering the name. What he did not regret was to shift up against Sykes and then lay more of his weight against him. He did not regret shifting his uninjured hand under Sykes' when the man tried to shove him off and then to drive his fingers against the flesh where beneath the ribs had been damaged, perhaps broken. "You dare to harm so much as a hair on his head and I'll kill you." He hissed.

The sentry appeared still more interested in looking at the civilians, a few girls he found pretty, that came in as prisoners and that were now further along to the way from them.

It served Pye all the better. "..Swear to it.. or this'll hurt so much more." He spoke harshly into the man's ear, his fingers pressed like daggers against the injury but then shifted as the boy noticed the bandages at the man's leg. "You so much as think o' hurtin' t' ones I 'old dear n' I swear t' you... i'll make you wish you were dead now!" He smirked and there thrust his fingers, jabbing them roughly against the wound, caring to cause as much pain as he could.

Just scream, he thought. The Frogs would do something, wouldn’t they? But something in him rebelled at the idea. He kept his mouth tightly shut, his eyes filling as the pressure on his ribs increased.

Swear? The hell he would. He meant to spit in the greenjacket’s face, but suddenly the pressure on his chest eased and Sykes drew in a sobbing breath as the boy leaned over him. His hand was reaching for Sykes’ leg wound, but two could play at that game. Sykes grabbed with his right arm for the injured had the boy still held protectively against his chest.

Pye made a crucial mistake. When concentrating on inflicting pain heedlessly he had forgotten to protect his own injuries from harm. His hand was all and well against his chest, where he believed it was safe, but it was far from being out of harm's way.

This was easily proven when Sykes latched his arm over his injured fingers, without so much as an attempt to pull away before the man would have been successful. When his injured hand was held onto, Pye froze. His own hand rested against the wound, but did not dare press in now. Not when Sykes hold was where it hurt most. He had brought Sykes to the point of sobbing. Little triumph in that. But now?.... He lifted his gaze, which locked with the man's. "Let go." He muttered in harsh whisper.

“You. First.” Sykes bit out hoarsely, keeping a firm hold on the lad’s broken hand.

Even with no additional pressure the hold on his damaged hand caused discomfort and pain to the lad. It was not as bad as it could be, should Sykes have decided to squeeze it tight, but it was enough to have Pye want for his hand to be released soonest possible.

But. Could he trust Sykes to do it, once his own was held too far from his wound to matter? Would Sykes not pay his back, when he knew he was free from pain? Men like Sykes were just like that. It made young Pye hesitate, even if his expression was that of pain.

"No. You first." He trusted himself more than he did the bastard who was the cause of his pain in the first place.

It seemed they were at an impasse. Made painfully aware of his own disadvantage, however, Sykes would not so lightly relinquish the single bit of leverage he had. He regarded the boy, trying to judge how best to play his card.

“If yer hand ain’t back at yer side by the count o’ three, you can kiss goodbye any chances o’ them fingers healing proper.” He held the boy’s gaze for a moment, letting the threat sink in before he spoke again. “One.”

Sykes hit a nerve. Pye looked nervously at the man. His injury already worried him terribly and the fear he might not be able to fire a weapon again, his rifle, sat heavy on his mind. He stared at the man jerked his head down to watch his hand gripped securely in the man's hand then his own, where it rested ready to cause pain or to retreat.

He barely heard the "One." And was not sure whether he heard two. He hesitated and then jerked his hand back a little. If he was wrong and Sykes did it anyway he would....he would ram his elbow into his ribs so hard that any which had not yet been broken, would be. With that resolve the hand that was a threat to Sykes was held up and away from the injury on his leg. "Let it go , now."

Sykes released his grip, letting his arm drop. His eyes were drawn with fearful magnetism towards the boy’s free hand and it was only with a supreme effort that he kept them locked on the lad’s face, watching for anything which might signal his intentions. Please God, not again.

Pye drew his injured hand close to his chest again and raised his uninjured one in protection of it. He gazed at the mangled fingers with great concern and for a moment ignored that Sykes was there.

He sat up beside the man and rocked back and forth. Then finally he stopped. He shifted his gaze on the man, and relief was very evident on his features. Relief that his fingers were not squeezed but released. He reached up for his shako and then smacked it across Sykes's face. "You should not have broken them in the first place, you daft idiot!"

Sykes head snapped to the side under the impact and he hissed in pain as his body twisted to follow. “An’ you should’ve kept outa what didn’t concern you!” he spat furiously, turning back to face the green-jacket.

"An' you lot shoulda laid of t' riflemen!" He hissed, placing his shako back on his head. "None'o it would'a happened if your lot stuck their noses outta other people's business!"

"N' don't ya dare do any of it 'fter we're back with t' Brits. Or I will have your hide." He threatened, but smartly kept his injured hand well away from the man.

Sykes' expression drew into a sneer and he spat at the green-jacket.

"....." Pye stared at Sykes in shock. He wiped the spit from his cheek, still coloured from the bruising that Sykes caused when he tied him to that tree. Suddenly he pushed up and he jumped at the man, throwing his leg over him, so that he sat himself across his chest while his good hand punched at Sykes' face, at his nose and then went for his neck. "You're a bastardly coward! No bloody wonder you were a provost. Too effin' frightened to face the real enemy. Could only pick on unarmed men, weak from hunger!" He hissed through gritted teeth.

“No!” was all Sykes managed to get out before the boy dropped his body weight onto his chest. Pain exploded in his left side. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; he barely felt the blows raining down on his face. His vision swam as he felt blindly for the green-jacket’s injured hand. He had to make it stop.

“Hey!” exclaimed LeBras, hurrying over. Up until that moment he had thought the boy was quietly tending an injured comrade. But the current scene shattered that assumption. He grabbed for the boy’s collar, meaning to haul him off. “What do you do?” he demanded.

Pye jerked up, startled as a hand suddenly grasped and successfully found his collar and a shadow passed over them both. He twisted around, glaring at Le Bras. It took him a moment to recognise the man.

His raised fist unclenched and with a few sharp breaths he calmed himself enough to speak. "....He was slippin' away....Like dead so. ...I stopped 'im." Though perhaps he should tell him the truth?

Le Bras frowned down at the young grasshopper, whom he had let drop roughly in the dirt. “Do I look like a fool?” he asked sternly, “Why do you do that?”

Pye sat up, dusting himself. "...It's him." He pointed at Sykes. ".... He is t' one who..." He rubbed the back of his head. "... he did it." At very last he lifted his bruised and battered hand. "...I won't kill him." He added simply and sat back, pulling his legs close to him.

"Oh." Le Bras looked in disgust at the prone figure on the ground and shrugged. If that was the case, he would have happily let the boy carry on, but at that moment, the surgeon, having broken off his tending of Turcat, burst into view, shouting in animated French. Le Bras attempted to explain the situation, but the surgeon was having none of it.

"He says," translated Le Bras, "That he does not care if the man.... ****ed your sister. You must not hurt his patients."

"Wasn't the only one was doin' the hurting." The boy changed tact. "....I'll be.. delighted to make amends...and tend to his injuries." his eyes narrowed on Sykes. He then looked at Le Bras: "Tell him that." He paused. "An... I'd want t' talk to you 'bout....'bout that other thing."

Ignoring the snarling protest from the man on the ground, Le Bras relayed the offer to Montreuil and the surgeon seemed to listen, though in fact there was no need. His English was excellent, but he preferred to keep that hidden. Prisoners were more likely to talk if they thought they could not be understood. And so, he had understood the grasshopper's words, nor had the look he gave the other man escaped him.

He approached until he stood before the lad, peering critically into his face. Then, without warning, cuffed him roughly across the side of the head. "Tell him," he snapped at Le Bras, "That he will do just as he says. And if the man's condition worsens, he will suffer likewise."

Le Bras waited until the surgeon had returned to his work before letting out a low whistle. In his broken English, he translated Montreiul's words for Pye, then recalling what the lad had said, asked, "What other thing?"

Pye was still nursing his new bruise when Le Bras translated the surgeon's words. So... he agreed. Only.. he would not be allowed to hurt the bastard. Or, rather, he would not be allowed to see him get worse, but what the taking care of him was concerned. It could hurt more, or less.

He nodded curtly at the order. "...Fine. I will." He eyed Sykes and grinned at him."... You'll get all better." Anybody who had a choice to say no to that, would probably have been very inclined to do so."

"..may we speak private? 'fore t' surgeon sees me?"

“Yes,” answered Le Bras, frowning in puzzlement as he drew the lad a short distance off, “What is it?”

Sykes watched them until they had moved off, then shut his eyes. During the struggle, he had slipped down until only his head rested against the wheel of the cart, but uncomfortable as it was, he didn’t try to reposition himself. Even the shallowest breath sent pain shooting through his chest. The ache in his leg and the new injuries to his face were beginning to register as well. And now that bloody Frog surgeon was going to let the boy tend him? Sykes felt suddenly dangerously close to laughing and bit down hard on his lip to stop himself. If he was going to make it out of this, he had to keep it together.

"..Sir." He began, though he suspected Le Bras as being nothing but a simple private. "....If.... I was perchance t' mean t'.....t'. go, cross .." He bit his lip. " Change.. there.... , what would I need to do?" He studied the man. "Look 'ere... I've got nothin' left there. Nobody back 'ome. Not really. No fortune left behind. " He grew silent with that thought.

“You say....” Le Bras hesitated, the gravity of what the lad was saying penetrating even his natural levity, “You want to leave the English? To join us?”

"...hmm." The boy nodded sharply. He knew at last that this was no longer just a plan in his head. He had taken a step towards making it a reality. A reality he might regret if the plan fails. He hoped he would have more luck this time. His life depended on it.