10th June: The misplaced

Saint-Hilaire shook his head. He wondered if the whirlwild that was this officer had really happened or if it had all been an odd dream. Closing his eye briefly, he relaxed. If he came back, it would be a blessing. If he did not, then it was at least a strange, but pleasant experience.

With a yawn he realised that he was still quite tired. He could not sleep just yet, just as he could not wear his coat. His back not allowing it. But he would do both soon. One sooner than the other.

Half an hour later, the quiet of the square was once again disrupted by Lieutenant Prayon, this time carrying a large knapsack.

Looking extremly pleased with himself, he once more entered Etienne's waggon.

"Hello again, Sainty! Hate to have kept you waiting, but I had to deliver an urgent message to that beauty outside."

He dumped the sack onto the floor next to Etienne's cot.

"So that you might see what you're missing, I have asked her to bring some hot water. You are to quietly appreciate and keep your hands to yourself! I don't like to share."

"Hot water?" Saint-Hilaire arched a brow, studying Bastien. "What have you prepared for myself, dear Prayon? Am I to begin to worry, or be glad that you have thought ahead of me?"

He averted his gaze to his knapsack. He debated reaching for it at first, then decided he would see to it, once his guest was gone. "Posessive of the lass you've just met? She must be a beauty!"

"My even dearer Sainty, I only take natural precautions against a man who can claim the unfair advantage of wearing a very romantic-looking eye-patch. But if you give me your word that you will make no advances towards her while I'm away and only sing my praise in her presence, I will leave you to figure out what hot water is commonly used for and check the other waggons for that young scamp of mine."

"..You commit cruel mockery against me. A romantic-looking eye-patch? And beneath it the horror that might have any good natured, faint heart of a lady halt.. and break." He shrugged, and winced as the burnt skin of his back was pulled.

"I can swear to you that I shan't touch your lass, nor make advances ...I've a certain injury.. that might discourage me for a while." He smiled gazing at Prayon, curious about his reaction, a tease though he spoke true of it.

"..but i cannot lie to the poor thing. Praise you?.. It would be most unfair of me to misguide the girl so!" He teased not quite sure whether he should indeed fear the arrival of this girl, or feel indecent for lack of clothing when she would come.

Prayon looked up sharply at that, but in an instant the pity in his eyes was blown up into outrageos proportions.

"My good fellow, the only thing that's cruel around here is your total lack of any useful education concerning the refined handling of women: You never take that patch off until she has imagined the worst and come to terms with it and has cast you as the perfect hero. Then you might allow yourself to be talked into it, humbly protesting that the whole episode was quite unromantic and not heroic at all. She will not believe a word of it and love you even more."

He snatched an ewer from the floor and looked sternly down at Etienne.

"And as for that other thing: I don't believe you for a moment, and as you have professed yourself unwilling to do justice to my sterling character, I as you superior officer will punish you accordingly by withholding such beauty from your sight and fetching that water myself. Do not expect me back in less than twenty minutes."

"I see that you would delight in missing an eye for it would be another, splendid way to attract the attention of ladies. But then, were you to prance the world with but one leg and arm.. .sir, " He said that more playfully. "you would still find a way to kneel under the skirts of a pretty face. With all due respect."

He shook his head as a stern gaze fell onto him, as if this was to intimidate him, or perhaps place emphasis onto the spoken words. "...I do hope that I may then use this water in private. For... I'd rather not have your help in such a private affair, no matter how gentle you might promise your hands to be." And there was a slight flinch at those words, the smile wavering just a little, and then the emotion was gone, the expression of amusement forced to return.

"I don't think I would want to waste my talents on you. You appear to be utterly unappreciative of them!"

Bastien returned in a deeply offended voice and stalked out of the waggon. A bump and a laughing curse showed that this was perhaps not the best way to leave a vehicle on not too small wheels, but it didn't appear as if this little incident had damaged the lieutenant, because almost immediately he picked himself and the ewer up and disappeared in the direction of the camp, jauntily whistling.

Saint-Hilaire frowned and leaned back into his cot. He was tired and somewhat confused. He had been amused for a few moments, when he heard that Prayon had indeed misjudged the distance and that his parting was not as dignified as he would have hoped. But the amusement quickly wore off, replaced instead by the desire that he would be so well, that he could leave the surgeon's wagon.

The return to his own regiment was no longer an if or a 'sometime later', but rather a possibility that would be realised rather soon. It was true that in part he yearned to be back and it was only due to his report that he felt as if he ought to postpone it. With another yawn, he closed his eye. He would have to get used to the blind side and keep people from standing where he could not see them. That included Prayon. He could just see that man, even as a lieutenant now, thinking up a not so innocent deed.

The interview with the angle must have gone rather close to the lines Prayon had laid down, because it was exactly twenty minutes later that he reappeared for the third time, the ewer with steaming water balanced on one shoulder.

Setting it on the floor of the waggon, he quickly vaulted in after it and had already opened his mouth for another bawdy comment when he spotted Etienne's closed eye. With an unholy gleam in his eyes, he tiptoed up to the cot, knelt down beside it and laid his head next to Etienne's. In his best bedroom voice, he purred into the other man's ear:

"Sainty, darling! Don't ignore me!"

There was the warm feeling of breath against his ear, supported by a soft purr of words and it made Saint-Hilaire... freeze. His eye opened sharply, his arms coming up as it to strangle or strike the offending person, and he was perhaps moments and inches from doing so, when he realised it was just Prayon. A glare that he gave him, could speak for a thousand words, and lasted on his face for a fair few long moments.

"What on earth were you thinking?!" He exclaimed, then more subdued, openly ashamed of his harsh reaction he muttered. "...Have you mixed up the wagons again?...Do I look like your willing lass?" His eyes narrowed. "If your eyesight is so poor, I might worry that the lass you've suggested is in truth not one at all."

For a moment Prayon looked stunned, then he opend his mouth. Obviously lost for a witty reply, he closed it again after a minute. Finally he managed, rather weakly: "I must have. You hadn't that flooring a repartee when I left you."

He took up the ewer and placed it on the small surgeon's table.

"As you have clearly outwitted me: How are we to proceed? I do only know the script for scenes where I come back as dashing hero."

Saint-Hilaire studied Prayon. The man had not meant it. True. And he was trying to make better of the situation, being his old, quirky self. He shifted up slowly, his position something between leaning to the side and actually attempting to sit.

" If one outwits the other.. must not other offer his services until regains his previous post?" He smiled faintly. "Come, what have you brought me? Hot water? Or are we to wait that it turns cold as the stream you have retreived it from, and makes your sacrifice a fruitless one?"

Prayon groaned: "Oh cruel fate! Why, o why have I ever taken you under my wing, Sainty? It is of course abundantly clear that without my superiour coaching you would never have landed that hit."

He rummaged around inside the knapsack and produced a shaving kit, a washing cloth and a neat bundle of underwear. Tossing the last item into Etienne's lap, he said:

"Here, you may have these back. They didn't quite fit my classic stature."

"..Classic.. or overly portly, from all the food you have gotten, while there was a lack of hungry mouths to feed in the officer's mess?" He asked gazing at the fabric that landed in his lap. He wondered how many more garments of his possession the other man took for himself and whether he could expect a return of them at some time in the future.

He could not exactly demand it of a higher ranked man, though he could certainly try to request it. "You would not mind to aid me in this endevour to have myself become more presentable? I have a wound I truthfully do not wish to make worse by my .. half sighted probing of the blade about it." It was a simple enough request.

"You are a brave man, Etienne Saint-Hillaire, to trust me with a blade anywhere near your throat. 'Portly' alone deserves to see it cut."

But Bastien's hands were gentle when he draped another cloth around Etienne's throat and began to lather his cheeks.

In a conversational voice, he talked on, taking advantage of the fact that Etienne had to keep his mouth shut:

"I would of course never want to have my sous look anything other than highly presentable. I firmly intend to burden you with all the paperwork for as long as I can make your present state last, and it would never do if the colonel were to think that I delegated this immensly important task to an unkempt ruffian. We need to show him that even the triplest dublicate is handled with the greatest decorum imaginable."

Saint-Hilaire quickly learned that the shaving offer was in part a good ruse to keep him quiet while his brother officer could rattle on about this and that and of his thoughts of the future.

He hmmphed in reply to the overly generous offer of paperwork that awaited him in what appeared to be a very near future. He arched a brow at Bastien and huffed again in response.

Paperwork was one of his least desirable tasks to commit himself to. It was boring, tedious and took hours behind the desk, strained the neck and back, strained patience. He tapped his fingers gently across his knee, expressing his dissatisfaction with the said. Prayon, the witty bastard.

When he had finished lathering Etienne's face, Bastien with great care placed a single dot of lather on the other man's nose.

Then he went to the flaps shielding the entrance and fixed them to let in as much light as possible, charily helped Etienne to raise a bit further, placed a jacket and trousers behind Etienne's back,
looked with tilted head at his work and gave a satisfied nod, as if he had just finished painting the Mona Lisa.

Then he opened the shaving knife and eyed it with a doubtful expression, one hand rubbing the slight whiskers on his own cheeks thoughtfully.

"Now how does this work?"

"I do not think I need my nose shaved.. dear Prayon." Saint-Hilaire spoke and reached up to the tip of his nose, having to adjust the distance a bit, before he could wipe it off. One eye seemed to change the perspective a little. It needed time getting used to it.

He tilted his head to observe Prayon. "...Oh great painter... satisfied with your work?.. Ye need canvas now, not blade?" He spoke so, teasingly, and looked ever more amused when the man did not seem to know how to start shaving another. "..It does usually help, if you place the blade against one's cheek. But, do be gentle. You are shaving of the hairs.. not skin."

"No! This is unacceptable. I demand that you dress in a different colour. The white lather does not contrast with the white sheet to my satisfaction."

Bastien affected what was obviously meant to represent an Italian master's accent and fluttered his hands, wielding the razor in a quite dangerous fashion.

Then he settled on the cot behind Etienne's back and took the sous-lieutenant's chin in a firm grip.

"Now shut up for a moment, will you? I can't guarantee for the results if I have to dodge your verbal missiles."

Leaning forward over Etienne's shoulder to adjust the towel one last time, an almost inaudible whisper he added:

"Relax! I promise I won't hurt you."

With calm, steady hands he then proceeded to remove lather and hair from Etienne's face.

"Not so different from shaving oneself after all", he remarked after a few passes, his voice teasing again. "And I don't have to take care not to get lather into the nostrils or keep my mouth shut."

A promise he hoped the other man would hold. It made the lad feel much stiffer for a few moments, the tension clear in the way his shoulders were held. But then, with the first safe scrapes finished, he relaxed again and only gave the other officer a pointed glare, when he had thought to joke about where the lather could go.

That he had to keep quiet, was another matter. But if he could not speak with his mouth, the tapping of his finger, or the whole expression was vocal enough. After a few moments, that expression changed into something of a rather terribly amused one. What was the joke? And why was it funny? The lad did not say, but he seemed barely able to contain laughter and keep the corners of his lips at best detained in their position.

His eye followed every motion of the other man, and only halted, leaving the lad at some unease, whenever Prayon was at his blind side and he could not see him.

Scraping off the last bristles without any mishap, Prayon put down the razor.

"There, done! Unless you want other cheeks shaved as well?"

"Other...." He paused, and was not quite sure if it he figured what else the man was suggesting, but scoffed as not to appear ignorant. "Let me see, whether you have done a job worth commending.." He frowned as his bandaged fingers allowed no sort of sensation, even if, once unbound, they would allow it in full. He brought his hand up all the way so that he could place the wrist against his cheek and gently trace the clean shaven skin.

"Not bad. I believe I shall employ your services again." He spoke that innocently, for he knew that he could hardly expect his superior now, in rank, to do him such favours.

"Would you mind seeing to my back now...now,.." He hastened to add. "not with that blade... but .. to tell me how it looks now... in truth." He may have wanted to see the flamboyant man's reaction to something of the sort. Shock him, because he could? Get back at him, for the enforced silence just a little while before.

Bastien leaned over to the table to carefully clean the razor and put it away before he turned back to Etienne.

"Faint praise. You will have to do better than that if you want me near you with a razor again and not cutting your nose off. And now bend over. You still got to much flesh on your ribs to see through you."

When Etienne did so, Bastien didn't move at first, but slowly, forcedly exhaled. Then he very gently traced one fingertip over the scarred, barely healed mess.

After a few seconds, he inhaled deeply and quickly took the washcloth, dipped it into the water and started to clean those parts where the skin had closed again. In a very bland voice, he said:

"It's not infected. It will heal. You'll probably have to change your shirts a bit more often for the next couple of days, though."

When a fingertip touched his damaged flesh, Etienne inhaled sharply and jerked forward. He tensed, his fingers curling up on each hand. "I will praise you.. better, I promise, if you do not..." He was quiet again, more because his teeth were gritted even at the slightest touch of cloth and water.

"..That is good news.." He whispered, his voice strained. "..that it is not infected. ..do you think it will look terrible?" He asked and tilted his head a little, his expression serious. "..It must now...I .. am not vain to ask you that.." He smiled. "Only, what else to ask." It did shock. He sensed Bastien's change.

"..Prayon...Bastien." He murmured. "... We are not to spare the Portuguese.., we are just not to spare them. Their minds are cruel.." He turned quiet, his voice softening even as he said the last few words.