June 1 - Surgeon's Wagon

The rim of the wagon wheel against which he had propped himself was digging into his back. Carefully, Sykes tried to shift his weight, gritting his teeth as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through his right side. Bloody Frog cavalry. He should have stayed in the god damn wagon; at least then he would only have had a leg wound to worry about. Bloody horses, no wonder Foster had hated the brutes so much.

Nothing he could do about that now, though. He let his eyes drift closed. New voices, sometimes speaking in English could be heard approaching, but he paid them no mind.

Moreaux indicated the wagon. " Arrived." He said accenting the second part of the word, which made it sound quite strange. "Sit here. The surgeon'll see you once he's got our boys." Well, he hated English anyway, but he expected the grasshopper to understand enough. With a light nudge and his hand pointing in the direction he enforced his point.

Pye nodded obediently and approached the other figure perched awkwardly against the wheel.

He sat down beside him , not yet taking much notice of who he was joining. "Day." He mumbled in a vague greeting and leaned back, careful of his hand and his bruising.

"Sod off," muttered Sykes without opening his eyes.

"...Can't. Told to sit 'ere." Pye started and froze. The voice. It sounded familiar. Too familiar. He bit at his lip, trying to calm his breathing. Could not be. This man was just....

"..what's yer name.?" He kept his voice in a mutter as if hoping it would conceal its true colour of voice.

Hell. Sykes opened his eyes, glancing over at the other man - boy, really - but he had turned away. Another greenjacket. Brilliant. "Who's askin'?" he retorted, his tone not inviting a response.

Pye opened his mouth to answer with Smith. But he ought to have been more original than that. Hm. Hagman was a name that Sykes probably knew. The man was a great shot and in the 95th, famed for his skill. He had to think quick and: "Wilton. "There. His friend would not mind having his name used for a good cause.

"Wilton, eh?" The lad's voice was vaguely familiar, but not the name. "Fine. Now shut up."

"...What's yours?" He insisted. He needed to know who the bastard was, that broke his fingers. Seeing the face was not enough. Though he had to make sure to remember that too. "What regiment? Me... I'm..." He checked his collar. His coat was in a deplorable state and he suddenly hoped that the man would not pick up on that.

Sykes, he had been about to snap at the lad, anything to get him to shut up, but he forgot himself, drawing breath too sharply and his intended response turned in to a wheezing curse as pain flared in his chest. He grimaced, sagging back against the wheel and against the bruises he'd acquired when that Pioneer wrapped him around a tree. He shook his head, remembering the spiraling absurdity of events that day.

He turned to the boy beside him, breathing more carefully this time, to answer the question, and froze. The voice, the lad’s age, the ragged coat, the nagging questions.... There were multiple explanations, but one in particular filled him with a cold dread. “Go to hell.”

".....Close to it. Here. Now." He shielded his injured hand with the one that was well. Did he recognise him, or think he did? Pye heard that sharp intake of breath, though he had mistaken the first for a sign of recognition, when all it was, was Skye breathing too hard.

"You're not an officer.." He pressed further. He still harboured hope that he would learn of his name. "don't need to fear a fellow Englishman. " Most of the time. "...we need to stick together,.. don't we?" His plans momentarily forgotten for the sake of this creature. He'd have nearly wanted to join the French just to be able to drive the butt of his new musket into his gut.

The realization of how close he had come to falling for the lad's scheme left him feeling shaken, but he was damned if he would let on to it. Interrupting the boy, he spoke coldly and deliberately, "Nice try. Wilton."

"...I know your face." Fine. If he was unwilling to play the game any longer, he could be treated with the same amount of honesty. "...That will be enough for them." Sykes did not need telling who them could be. The boy felt a mess of emotions seeing the man that hurt him. Him who was now vulnerable, with a terrible wound in the side, by the looks of it. His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer.

"I know the colour of your collar." He added eerily serious.

“**** you!” Sykes snarled, snapping his elbow up and back towards the lad’s face as he leaned closer. It hurt, possibly far more than any damage the blow might have inflicted upon the greenjacket. More slowly, Sykes dropped his arm, trying to shield his broken ribs. He regarded the boy with wary defiance, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He had no proof, he told himself. He'd never seen his face that morning. He had no proof. And it was a long way back to their own lines.

Though the elbow connected with Pye's cheek and threw the lad's head to the side, there wasn't as much force behind it as ought to have been. The boy jerked back, then with a smirk, seeing Sykes punished for his transgression, he moved closer again. Only this time he laid his hand on the man's arm to keep it there and harmless.

"Hurts?.." He whispered. "...I know your voice. " Let him feel the terror. He was to blame that the boy was with the baggage and that he had disappointed Captain Vickery and caused him trouble. Trouble which resulted in the captain having to go see Wellington. "..I know your face. ..I'll know your name." Even if he did not, it was still enough. He remembered that little Davy was hurt by this man. The bastard.

He looked about. The sentry showed sign of utter disinterest towards the two prisoners. He probably believed one to be too injured to attempt anything. The boy laid his hand against Sykes's injured side, well against the arm that clutched the aching spot there and leaned his weight against it. "....You hurt Davy." He spoke through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowed on the man.

Sykes bit back a cry as the lad bore down with his weight on Sykes’ chest. He pawed frantically at the lad’s coat front with his free hand, trying to thrust him away, but he lacked the strength. God, it hurt! “Davy?” he managed to grind the word out between clenched teeth, “That his name? I’ll have to look him u—" the last word transitioned sharply into a groan of agony.

"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.